Theta Tau
by PhoenixWormwood137
Summary: If there's one child he can't stand to watch cry, it's this one. But now, stopping the tears may have incredible consequences. Silence might even fall. • Sequel to my "Darillium" fic, in which I use a DW fandom cliché for my own dastardly purposes. Can be read alone. Takes place after the end of series six.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Too many feels to put in one author's note! I couldn't have done this half as well without tomorrowsong Beta-reading.

Since I can't write second-person without breaking rules, I'm including the Doctor's name as an address at the top of every chapter so that it's clear who it's actually directed towards.

Please don't read the note following this one unless you work for the site, as it's just there as a technicality.

Thank you a thousand times, and enjoy!

* * *

o**O**o

* * *

_A/N: TO FF.N MODERATORS -IMPORTANT- I have a note of hesitant permission from you to write this story in letter format. It seems written in second person, but since it's directed towards a character, it's different._

_After emailing the site asking, "I was wondering if I could write a story/letter addressed to a character in a TV show. For instance, I would address them by their name, and then give them a chapter of their lives, told back to them," I received the reply:_

_"If you are writing a long letter to a single character then it should be ok."_

_This story _is_ a long letter to a single character. However, it's not strictly a letter in the truest sense of the word, since I'm writing their life to them in high detail. Feel free to message me if you don't like the way I'm going about this, but I thought I'd just say for reference that I DID ask for permission._

_Thanks so much for your time!_

* * *

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

It's like a tank, the life support. You sit, dry, watching the wet inside it. Hand on the cold glass, see the silver bubbles - like the Silence, like the places you kept the Silence the day you married her. No, don't think about that. Not the Silence. Forget them.

You crack a smile. Forget the Silence. For anyone else, it would be mandatory. But for you, it's a wish. If you could forget what was coming, at Trenzalore …

Don't, don't think about it. Shut up.

And, of course, with "don't think about it" comes River.

Your hand is shaking as you reach for the communicator, as you flip it open. Distract yourself, distract yourself, distract yourself - pick it up, Pond, pick up already!

"Hello?"

"Amelia!"

"Doctor? What - what's - up?"

Laugh a little - voice dry and hoarse. Clear your throat. "What would you think if I told you you were a grandmother?"

She shrieks a little and you try to laugh again.

"A grandmother?" Her voice has gone up a few octaves. "You can't do this to me! I'm not even thirty!"

"It isn't really funny," you admit, killing the moment.

"Doctor, what have you done?" She says, still facetious.

"River's gone," you say.

There's no sound but the hum of the life support beside you and the wet growl of the bubbles in the apparatus.

"What?" Amy says.

"She went to Darillium."

The other line is quiet, then Amy sniffs and says, "But - won't she turn up again?"

"Maybe."

There was nothing left in her diary. You liar. You… liar.

The quiet is even longer this time. Finally, Amy speaks in a small voice (Pond, using a small voice - the world's ending…) - "So how'd you have a baby, if River's gone?"

"I persuaded her to put him in an external life support system."

"Him? It's a boy, then? And how - when-" she sighs. "Doctor."

"I'll pick you up," you say, pitying the plea and the misery in that last word.

* * *

The Ponds' road. It's so mundane, so peaceful, that you're sad to break up the quiet with the groan of your TARDIS.

Door creaks open, pop your head out, and, before you can even take in your bearings, Amy's there. She flings her arms around you and hugs tight, and you return the embrace with eyes shut, and an extra, desperate squeeze.

"What exactly's going on?" She says, still quiet as before.

"Tell you when we get there," you say, and press your face against the scarf she's wearing, filling yourself with the scent of home. These are your parents (-in-law, but does that really matter? You need a family right now).

"Doctor?" Rory says, coming up beside you. You don't reply, except to hold out an arm to invite him in, making it a group hug.

For what seems a long while, you all just stand there, and then the moment's over and you draw back.

"So," Amy says, running a finger under her eye. "River's gone."

"I'm sorry," you say, voice husky.

"And what's this about a baby?" Rory asks.

You turn and go inside the TARDIS without answering, and they follow - up the few stairs to the flight deck, where Amy plunks herself down on the seat, Rory beside her.

"Good to be back in here," Amy says, leaning forward from her seat to plant a light little kiss on the console. "How have you been?"

You begin to answer, but then the TARDIS whirs loudly and slightly mournfully in response and you realize the question wasn't directed at you.

"Where are we going?" Rory asks.

"Tatania Three," you say, setting the ship in flight and punching a stabilizer - both for the sake of quiet conversation, and in memory of the woman who taught you to use those little blue buttons. "Planet with the best hospital I know. Run by the Sisters of the Infinite Schism. We've been there before."

"Doctor, what is going on?" Amy gets up and walks around to you, pushing the monitor you were aimlessly reading away and taking your hands.

"Come take a look," you say, as your TARDIS emits her familiar grating sound and you land.

It's quiet in the ward, extremely quiet. Lights, too bright, floor, too white. Amy and Rory step out of the TARDIS, and you stay near the doors, leaning against the beautiful blue wood and watching the new grandparents discover their daughter's baby.

They're clearly disconcerted by the glass-and-metal life-support system, but after approaching cautiously, they press their hands against the smooth windows where the wires and the steel framework part, and look in on the gorgeous little life in there.

"Doctor." Amy turns around. "Why's he in this thing?"

"He isn't born yet," you reply, checking your watch. "He isn't due for months."

"Explain," she says, emotions clearly threatening getting the better of her.

You stuff your hands in your pockets and walk over to join them. "River's DNA, along with scans of her pregnant body I got from the TARDIS, gave the nurses here enough information to construct a safe place for the baby to survive outside of his mother. It's not unheard-of in the fifty-first century."

"That is so creepy," Rory says.

You shrug. "Yeah. I suppose. But look at him."

You all stare for a minute. The forming body, little eyes, tiny fingers - all so small and already so detailed. And after so long, a child. It's more - so much more - than you hoped, than you dreamed. And it hurts. Because he reminds you of them. The ones the Daleks killed, and the ones you killed, and Jenny, who died to save you. It's all your fault. You want to run.

Rule seven. Never run when you're scared.

Instead, kneel down and dream of what your son will be.

* * *

Rory and Amy refuse to leave the TARDIS when you bring them back home. They say they're staying where they can get to the fifty-first century and watch their grand-baby grow. You can't blame them - did you ever leave when Susan was expected? So you let them stay, and, after begging the TARDIS to save the places you "need to go" for later, head off to some nice, peaceful planet.

She out-does herself, and takes you somewhere you've never been before. It's the shore of a restless grey sea, the whole beach made of glass. You see crackling electric storms in the distance, moving away through the bruised purple sky, and, after some scans with your screwdriver and information from the TARDIS, find out that this used to be sand, but was melted into sheets of glass when lightning struck.

"Beautiful," you say, and the Ponds agree.

Amy finds a picnic basket somewhere in the kitchen, and you eat lunch on the beach, watching the water wash against the glass.

"Promise there aren't going to be any creepy astronauts this picnic?" Amy says, and you give your word that you're not planning on dying.

"So, tell us," Rory says. "What happened?"

You swallow unnecessarily, and Amy rubs a hand along your shoulders in comfort.

"River-" Your voice starts out as an involuntary whisper, and you clear your throat. "River told me she was pregnant at Darillium. I supposed I screwed up time a bit getting her to the hospital - in the Library, she told me that - that Darillium was the last place she saw me, but I changed that to Tatania Three. Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey - I don't think it matters. She'll have the sense to tell me about Dar- what I need to know. Weird thing is, it didn't take an awful lot of convincing. I think… she knew there was something I wasn't telling her. At any rate, it was basic safety - the trips she takes - took - were dangerous."

"Are you all right?" Rory asks.

Smile. "Are you?"

"Not really."

A cloud shades the sun, and you all sit looking out at the ocean. Then the pale light peeks through again, and Amy asks if you and River talked about naming the child.

"River wanted to name him after me," you say. "I wasn't too keen on the idea, but I think -" you shrug. "If she wanted it."

Amy chokes on a sip of juice. "Excuse me - I'm not having a grandson named 'Doctor'!"

"No, not Doctor! Theta."

"Theta?"

"It's Gallifreyan."

"That's the big deal? That's your huge secret? That you're really called Theta? It's not even that bad."

"It's not bad at all," you sniff. "It's a very dignified name."

"So why are you so ashamed of it that you'd go by "Doctor" all your life?"

"Theta's not my real name," you say. "It's my novice title. It's what people called me when I was a child."

"So, would your son change his name, too, when he gets older?"

"I don't think so. The Gallifreyan school system's been abolished, so I think the name-rituals should be, too. But he can do it if he wants. When he's a hundred."

"A hundred! So, his lifespan will be like yours?"

You take a sip from your glass and savour it, letting the silence stretch longer and longer.

"Doctor?" Amy says.

"I don't know," you say.

"You're lying."

"I always lie."

"Please, not about our grandson."

"Both River and I were almost immortal, compared to most species. Barring accidents, we could have lived three or four thousand years each, at the start. But accidents happen."

"So…" Amy runs a finger along the edge of her glass. "Theta's safe, then? If that's what we're calling him."

You force another smile. "Safe and sound."

* * *

o**O**o

* * *

A/N: I'm planning on updating this every Saturday (you don't have to worry about it going unfinished - it's pre-written). Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

Is this how time normally passes? For humans? Really slowly, in the right order, yes… but with such joy? You never knew having a family was like this, or else you've forgotten. You certainly never knew parents could be this way.

And though you'd never trade the TARDIS for an apartment or your adrenaline-filled life for a mundane, domestic one, there is something about this - just taking it day by day with the Ponds. You have to admit it -

No, you really do have to admit it -

"Come on, Doctor, say it!"

"I am not going to say anything." You stuff a fish finger in your mouth, just to prove your point, letting the yellow custard drip off the sides.

"Say it…." Amy shakes your shoulders from behind, playfully drawing her words out. "Saaaay it…"

"Leave me alone," you mumble, around the fish, but you can't help smiling.

"I will. Just admit it. You like relaxing."

"No!" Swallow.

"Then you have to tell the truth about who won that game of Perudo."

"Rory really did cheat," you say, licking the custard off your fingers.

"If you're going to keep that lie up, you have to confess you like taking the slow road. It's one or the other."

"I don't have to confess anything."

-If you want to maintain that unbeatable Perudo record you've had for seven hundred years, you really do have to admit that relaxing isn't half bad.

Not when you're doing it to keep your family company.

And you almost forget…

.

A few lazy months later, you come into a cozy, messy living room somewhere deep in the TARDIS with news for the Ponds.

They're there, curled up on the couch together, watching television. Magazines from the thirty-first century and crosswords from the twentieth are strewn across the coffee table, which is adorned with coffee ring stains. Signs of life and comfortable existence.

You regret breaking it all up.

"He's due tomorrow," you say, taking a seat.

"So, let's go!" Amy sits up.

"What?"

"We're in a time machine," she points out.

"No," you say. "I told you, I'm not skipping a single day."

She leans back against Rory. "Why not, though?"

"Yeah," Rory says. "Why have we been delaying so long? It's not like you."

"I want to savour this time," you tell them. It's an easy question to cover with a lie that's half true. Defence tactics: now you need to change the subject of the conversation.

Unfortunately, the simple question has rather thrown you, and all you can think to say is what's on your hearts.

"I love spending time with you two. Been a bit family-starved for the last while."

"How long?" Rory asks.

"The last eleven hundred and four years," you say, shrugging.

"But that's exactly long you've lived," Amy says.

Shrug again.

"Didn't you have parents?"

"Oh, yeah. Not half as good as you two, though."

"You can say that with a clear conscience?" Amy laughs.

Naïve little Amy. Your conscience is never clear. And that realization - the realization of how innocent she is - is what stops you from telling them about - from even hinting further at - that ambitious, sadistic father and that often-preoccupied mother…

The memories, so dusty from disuse, physically hurt, almost as much as that man used to hurt you, with his hands and his words. You choke as you remember leaving that home - a harsh home, maybe, but the only one you had ever known - and going to a worse place, where they didn't hit you with their hands, but with iron rods, where you couldn't shield your mother from your father anymore, as they were both hundreds of miles away…

You stuff the thoughts away again, and know none of it has shown on your face. Nod, with a smile, to Amy's question.

And resolve to never, ever raise your child anywhere near Gallifreyan standards and traditions. If you get a chance to raise him.

.

It's a cold, crisp morning. Amy and Rory pull on coats and you all head in to the hospital.

They are beaming and excited. You are anxious, but their smiles rub off, a bit, and you're beginning to be optimistic, hopes rising as the elevator to the maternity ward does.

Of course, the calm you're settling yourself into jams when you actually arrive. All the worries lump together in your throat, blocking most of your ability to breathe, when you enter the shining white hospital room and see several nurses - one holding a tiny white-wrapped bundle - consulting together. Some looking anxious, others puzzled, a few grave. This might be bad. On the flip side, it might not even be related to you. But there's a sick feeling in your gut-

You draw nearer, and see that it is Theta the nurses are gathered round. Most of them glance at you and then retreat through an office door, leaving one - the one holding Theta - to speak to you.

"Is he all right?" You say, cutting straight to the chase.

"It's taking a while to run tests," she says. "So far, though, he seems … pretty stable."

You pull the soft white material the child is wrapped in back with one finger, so you can see his face. His eyes are open - they're green, like yours. As you stare down at them, they meet your own. It sends a tingle down your back. "Ohhh, look at him." _River's hair - look how curly - only, my colour. Look at him. _"Oh, he is beautiful," you say out loud, and run your fingers over his dark, fuzzy hair. "I wish River was here to see him."

Amy holds out her hands, and the nurse hands Theta over.

"He looks just like you!" Amy says, smiling at you.

"Lucky boy." Your grin feels numb - you can feel the muscles working but the happiness that usually powers your smile is being worn away by worry.

"I can't believe this," she says, and she's fighting tears, too. "This is crazy!"

Rory comes over, and you all spend a few minutes admiring the new addition to the family. Half of your brain seems to have jammed, and is admiring every detail of Theta's face with the repetition and determination of a tireless, glitching computer. But there's still the other half, which is buzzing in pain, screaming at you to stop torturing yourself, to go and find out how long this bliss, this child, will last.

It's when Theta starts gurgling in response to Amy's coos that something snaps inside you - you can't take this. And as your impatience reaches bursting point, you realize that the nurse who was holding Theta, before, is gone.

"I'll be back in a minute," you tell Amy and Rory, and they absentmindedly agree, still smiling down at Theta.

You enter the office, and, before any of the nurses can so much as protest against your unapproved presence, you've snatched a clipboard from one of them.

It only takes a few seconds to scan and process the news.

"Why didn't you tell me?" You say, throwing the death sentence down on a desk, leaning against the wall, and folding your arms.

A nurse starts talking about authorization, and your mind goes to your physic paper - but you're too angry to rely on credentials to prove what idiots they're being. Right now, your basic fighting instinct screams for you to batter them down with words and leave their ears and hearts bleeding. But hold yourself in check - there's no time, right now.

"So, tell me," you say. "What are you planning on doing?"

"What?"

"To save Theta. To save the baby. What are you going to do?"

"Sir," one starts, "There isn't-"

"Impossible isn't an option," you say, and she shuts her mouth.

Another, braver nurse takes up the cause. "We don't have the technology or the information to help your child," she says. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't need your sympathy," you say. "I need answers." You snap your fingers. "Come on! Give me everything, anything, something."

"We don't-"

"Don't what? You must have some kind of record in here." There are filing cabinets behind you - you pull out a few folders and start flipping through the contents. "Here, this is what I was after. Weight, height, the way his heart has been beating since he was born." You hold up the piece of fibre optic paper and touch the holographs supported by it, watching the computer as it replays the jagged, up-and-down lines that symbolize a heartbeat. "Now, that's the problem, isn't it? One heart where there should be two. And if we know the problem, there's hope for an answer. There's always hope, there's always a way out, there's always something."

Turn back to look at the nurses - something about their pasted-on patronizing looks fills your hearts with magma-hot anger. Their synthetic sympathetic expressions, so utterly useless.

"Come on!" Your voice is harsh and loud. You don't care. "Wake up! Think! I need you! Help me. Do what you're supposed to do! What about a heart transplant?"

"We can't. Under the circum-"

"I know," you snap. "His whole vascular system's wired the wrong way. But it's a starting point for a solution, isn't it?" You lean forward. "I thought you would be able to help. You said you might be able to do something. Get doing it, whatever you had in mind when you told me that!"

The door opens, and you whip round to see Amy and Rory standing there.

"We heard yelling," Rory says.

"Did you hear what was said?" A nurse says. Probably worried about the security of fill-in-the-blank, some pointless protocol-

"Of course they did," you growl. "Questions, Ponds?"

"Is - Theta going to be all right?" Amy says.

You start to answer, but when a nurse cuts in with a calm voice, you decide to swallow your words. You'll only hurt things if you keep talking. So you sit down, arms folded.

"When the baby was first brought in," the nurse says. "We found that he would have been stillborn, if we had let him develop without technology."

Amy covers her mouth with her fingers. "Why?"

Rory reacts differently. "But he did have technology to support him. So, what's the problem?"

"The problem is that the child was wired so extensively into a machine that his heart had virtually no need to pump on its own. And that's just it - on his own, the child is unable to survive for long. Theta needs two hearts - one isn't enough."

Ordinarily, the nurse's use of your son's name would warm you towards her. But it does little to melt your anger, now.

"As you probably know," she continues, "Theta's father had two hearts, his mother only one. This is a very rare case, but the children… well, we've never seen one survive."

"Why can't you fix that?" Rory says.

"It's not just something a machine can mend," she says. "It isn't possible to reset the way a whole body works. And even if it was - we don't have any information for Time Lord genetics. I think I speak for everyone when I say I've never even heard of a Time Lord. They seem to be drastically different from any other two-hearted species we deal with here. Theta would have to be in a stasis or a stimulated womb environment to survive for longer than a few days - neither will work if you want him to live and grow."

Nobody says anything. You keep your eyes on the baby in Amy's arms, but you can hear her and Rory sniffing back tears.

The clocks turn, and the nurses, one by one, are called away. As the last one leaves, she looks unsure of whether to tell your group to exit the office, as well.

_Say something, I dare you_, you think, but she seems, after a glance at your face, to decide she'd rather not risk being yelled at again.

You, Theta, and the Ponds are left alone in silence.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Rory says, after a few minutes.

"What, you wanted this hanging over you?" You look up. "Oh, you wanted this torturing you for four months and eating away at your mind and keeping you awake twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? I'm so sorry. I should have known."

"Doctor," Amy snaps. "That's not fair."

"Not fair, yeah. I got the memo on that one. I'll let you know when the universe decides to turn around and be fair."


	3. Chapter 3

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

It's a hopeless feeling. What should you do? Staying at the hospital is painful, leaving is painful, anywhere's painful. Your anger doesn't die down, so, before you can flare up at the doctors and nurses who failed when it was most important, you head back to the TARDIS. It'll be better for Theta in the TARDIS than most anywhere else - she's used to having a Time Lord on board.

You sit in your swing underneath the flight deck, trying to calm yourself by tinkering with nuts and bolts and electricity. You would rather be holding Theta, for the little time you have together, but Amy and Rory have insisted on taking him and going to find something for him to eat, and you guess they'll be gone for a while - they've got each other's shoulders to cry on, and they'll most likely take advantage of that. You're alone with the TARDIS, and, much as you love her, her sentience is still wrapped up in a metal - mostly unhuggable.

A few hours later, and your anger has done nothing but boil under the surface. Sparks fly from the machinery you're fiddling with, and fall to the floor, skipping across the smooth surface to meet - Amy's shoes. You look up.

"Amelia. How are you? Why don't you run off back to Rory again? I'm busy."

"Doing what?" She says, voice small.

"Not much," you say. "I am not, for example, spending time with my son, is there a reason for that?"

"He was hungry," she tells you, voice still quiet. "Rory's about to put him to bed."

You say nothing.

"Doctor-" she puts a hand on your arm. "I know you're sad, but there really isn't - I don't think - you probably shouldn't be so angry."

You let out a little laugh. "Right. Do you remember asking me if I had children, a long time ago?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to know something?" You can't help laughing again. "I know how it feels to be a grandparent, too. I know exactly how you feel right now, except worse, a lot worse, because you weren't the one who murdered Theta." Your voice drops. "Ever killed someone, Amy? Yeah, you have. But you've never killed an innocent, right? And you don't know what it's like to have blood on your hands, and you don't know what it feels like to fight, day after day, life after life, always fighting so your children could live safely, and then, at the end, just when you thought you might be able to stop the killing, have you ever turned around and murdered your children and your grandchildren and your mother and your father and - have you ever watched a planet crumble? It starts from the inside, and I swear you can hear the screaming from hundreds miles off. And all of your kind, burning and crying and all their hate pounding on your mind - their consciousnesses all reaching out and making you feel - making you feel them as they -"

You grip Amy's arm, and she gives a shocked sob.

"And then!" You raise a finger. "A second chance. But of course, even though you've begged it pretty please, the universe knows you're not good enough to be a parent, that you'll only end up ruining one more life, and so it kills the child before you can.

"Ever had that happen, Amelia? Then don't tell me I'm angry for no reason."

She backs away, tears coating her eyes. "Doctor."

"I'm not quite the man you thought I was, hey?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the whisper. You twist the swing so you don't have to look at her. But you can still see her reflection in the glass floor of the console room above - she's backing away, terror in her face.

"Go on, then. Run away," you snap.

There's a long pause. You close your eyes. She's gone, hasn't she. She'll never look at you the same way.

"No," she says.

"What?" You open your eyes and let the swing spin back to face her. She's still there.

"No, I will not run away!"

And she's hugging you again, and your mind is struggling to cope with this. She'll still come within a mile of you, after you told her..?

"Oh, Amy," you say, pressing her close. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Do something, Doctor," she sobs. "Save him, please. Don't let everyone die again."

You put your head in her shoulder. "I can't."

.

You need to lie down - so tired. So tired. It strikes you, for the first time, how empty the TARDIS is. It's huge, but there are no happy voices, no laughter echoing down the corridors.

There is crying, though. You can hear it as you go past a carved door - a baby's voice. Theta. You stop, and lean against the door, just listening. It hurts you. Maybe if you let it cut you to the bone, the scars will last, and you won't ever be able to block out the memory. You won't like that in a hundred years, when remembering re-opens the wounds, but, right now, you want to make sure that no one forgets Theta.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, a high voice cuts through the wails. It takes you a minute to realize it's Amy.

"Travelling man," she sings. "Such secrets to be told."

The crying dies down-

"Alien man, running from the days of old." - and there's nothing but silence and the sweet singing.

"Out of his world, with nothing left to lose… Travelling man … coming down to rescue you."

You smile a little, and close your eyes.

"You're hard to find, Time Lord… Too busy saving everything to stop. The travelling man will save the day - the travelling man will keep you sa-a-afe. Even if he has to die five hundred and seven times -"

Your eyes open. How … how does Amy know? When you were with Sarah Jane, you said you could regenerate five hundred and seven times. What is Amy singing?

"-The travelling man will save the day."

You open your mouth, about to walk in and ask, but then the song picks up - sadder, happier, audibly sung with a smile, and suddenly, it comes to you. You know who wrote this. You told that woman everything. And it is so fitting that her lullaby is soothing your child to sleep. "Everybody knows that everybody dies, but nobody knows it like him. And I think all the lights would drain out of the skies if he ever gave up trying."

You look through the crack in the door to see Amy lean down and whisper in Theta's ear - "Just this once… everybody lives."

Tears well up in your eyes, and they're on your cheeks before you even realize it. You put your hands up, roughly wiping them away.

When was the last time you cried?

"The travelling man will save the day. The travelling man will keep you sa-a-afe - even if he has to die five hundred and seven times, the travelling man will save the day."

There's a quiet rustling noise, then Amy comes out, closing the door after her.

"I've never heard that song before," you say, voice slightly clogged with that lump in your throat. Amy hands over a worn book - a thick, hardcover "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows". It's open, and there's a piece of parchment lying there, folded along the crease where the pages meet. You know what it says. You've seen it before. There's a poem there that you never finished reading.

"Why not?" Amy says.

Why didn't you come back to this?

You run your fingers over the slanted, curled words. River didn't like this book much. Didn't see the value in fantasy. But she knew you would eventually read it again - someday, when you were tired and needed something to cheer you up and take your mind off everything.

So why didn't you come back to this?

Remember the times when you stole each other's journals? You kept all the promises, shut your eyes to the past - that wasn't the point in nicking the record of your partner's life. Your real purpose was to graffiti one another's blank futures with love notes. It only happened once or twice, but it brought smiles on a rainy day.

This is like that. She wrote about you, and then put the poems in a book she knew you'd find, eventually.

Why didn't you come back to this?

Because she's dead. And seeing her smiling through the words presses the bruises 'till they bleed.

"I couldn't," you say.

"You should. She wrote some beautiful songs." Amy walks away, but before she can go too far, you grab her hand.

"There's a way, Amy."

"What?" She turns.

You look down at the page, eyes on the words that stand as a testimony to the handful of times you've been able to save every last life. _And I think all the lights would drain out of the skies if he ever gave up trying… just this once … everybody lives._

"I'm not going to give up," you say, a watery, hesitant smile creeping onto your face.

"Doctor! If there's a way, why didn't you say so before?" She takes your hand in both her own. "Where? What? When?"

It's a little hard to smile, but you only have to hold the grin for a moment before you turn on your heel and head off to the control room.

She stay behind, staring, and you're halfway up the hallway when you yell, "Come along, Pond!", and she starts after you.


	4. Chapter 4

Almost forgot to update in Angels Take Manhattan insanity. I don't think my feelings will ever recover.

* * *

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

"A Time Lock," you say, feet pacing the clear floor of the flight deck, "Is a very hard thing to break."

"Doctor, what's going on?" Amy comes up behind you, slightly out of breath from the running.

"Fortunately, I set this one myself," you continue.

"What one? One what?"

"Unfortunately, that doesn't make a difference."

"It doesn't make a difference?"

"There's no password or key-code for a Time Lock, or else it would be guessable."

"What are you talking about?"

"Guessable things get guessed."

"I _guess_ you're never going to shut up and tell me what you're on about?"

"It's a shame. But it's also not a shame, because someone would have tortured me to death to get the password by now, if there was one, and I knew it." You stop at the TARDIS monitor, turning a dial until the picture on it whizzes into life.

"That's nice."

"Quite. And it shows you what we're up against. People who'd kill a nice person like me, just to break out of an eternal prison of war and nightmares? What is the universe coming to?"

"So, are we _going_ to this eternal prison?"

"If we want to save Theta - yes."

"How, then?"

"I was telling you that it was impossible, but apparently, you weren't listening."

"Nothing's impossible."

"Oh, mouthy. Okay. What we're up against is a Time Lock. Come here, and I'll show you."

Amy joins you at the screen, and you gesture to a diagram of a thick round shell surrounding a black cloud. "What's in here," you say, pointing at the cloud, "Wants to get out. But I don't want it to get out, because that would destroy the universe. So a long time ago, I put a Time Lock around it. Nothing comes or goes. But now _I _need in, because I happen to know that the best healer, with the technology we need, is right -" you stab the heart of the black mass with your index finger - "Here. So, what do we do? What can we do that no one inside the lock can?"

"Fly our TARDIS in?"

"_My_ TARDIS had a lot of sisters, once. And those girls are inside the lock. Poor things. No, if it only took a TARDIS to do the trick, the stuff in there would be out and wreaking havoc."

"Okay, so what do we do?"

"If a TARDIS, by herself, tried to go through a Time Lock, she'd die. The energy it takes to smash through would suck the life out of her. People have tried it before - the ship they flew fell apart and everyone inside was killed. So, what do we need? More power. Where do we get that? We'd need a psychic link with the heart of the TARDIS, to feed her life to burn instead of her own soul. Do we have a psychic link? Oh, that's crazy, _nobody_ has a connection that strong with their spaceship! Only people completely without a social life! Oh, look who's had no social life for hundreds of years."

"You have us!"

"You're human, you don't count. No offence."

Amy folds her arms.

"And even dorks like the Doctor," you continue, "Can't get anything through their link. That's unheard of. Time Lord minds don't get that lonely! What if the mind was the only one in the universe, though? Well, then it would attach to the closest thing to a Time Lord out there - a Gallifreyan - a TARDIS. Oh, you see what I'm saying?"

"No. Even if you do have a connection with your TARDIS, how will we give her more power?"

"Well, I've got some regenerations in the back pocket."

"What?"

"A couple more lives. That I can burn up."

"What? Lives? Won't that hurt you? You can't -"

"Maybe. It's a little risky. I can't even guarantee the connection will be strong enough to get the lives through. But it should work."

"_Should_?"

"Yeah. It should. That, or we all die."

Rory walks in just in time to hear the last sentence, and stops short, eyebrows raised.

"You wouldn't risk that with Theta on board," Amy says.

"Theta will die anyway," you say, mouth stiffening into a grim line, "If we don't make this trip. I'm ready to take the chance. I can drop you off home, though, if you'd rather not."

"No. We're coming," Amy says. "Of course we're coming."

"_We're_?" Rory grumbles.

You both look at him.

"No, I'm coming," he says. "There's no way I wouldn't. Just - forget it."

"So - now that we know we're putting our lives on the line to get there, where exactly are we going?" Amy says.

Your hands pause, resting on the bar below the monitor screen.

"Gallifrey."


	5. Chapter 5

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

Amy's face is blank for a second, and then she seems to recognize the name. "You mean, where you grew up?"

"That's the place," you say. "Come on."

You lead them up the stairs to the left of the console, through a narrow hallway or two, and into a kitchen. It's warm and crowded, the cupboards on the wall piling, with no rhyme or reason, toward the ceiling. You make tea, and sit with the Ponds at the chipped table, cradling the heated porcelain of the mug in cold hands.

"We'll go when Theta gets up," you say, blowing the burn out of the drink. "If you're still sure you want to come."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Amy says, teacup, already half-empty, suspended from its handle by her fingers. "It's nice, isn't it, your planet?"

You give a stiff smile, hiding it as soon as possible with the rim of your mug. "A little."

"It's perfect, you once said."

"Has its faults," you mutter vaguely.

"But we won't run into anything bad," she assures you and Rory. "I mean, you said there were only a few rotten Time Lords, near the end."

"A couple more than a few," you say to the tea.

"Is it dangerous?" Rory asks.

"We have to get out of there quick," you say, "Once Theta's cured."

"Can't we-" Amy starts.

"There's a reason there's a Time Lock around that place," you snap, then immediately regret it. "Sorry."

"It's fine," she says, voice small.

You dip a finger in the tea, then spread it over the table in the shape of a circle. Dipping again, like a pen in ink, you bring the rough shape of the Citadel of the Time Lords to shining life.

"We can land somewhere around here… and as far as I know, this is where we're going… oh, I don't …" you wipe the wood clean again. "I don't…"

You rest your head in your hands for a moment, and once your eyes close, you know they're going to rebel and not let you open them again, and you'll have to fight against giving in to exhaustion. It's been months since you last slept, but it's not that. You're scared. Scared to go back and scared that this won't work and you will be caught.

"Doctor?" Rory says.

"Oh," you moan. "Yeah, I'm here." But your eyes stay shut.

"Come on," you hear Rory say. After a handful of minutes, in which Amy rubs your shoulder and (judging by the sound) Rory puts away their teacups, the door squeaks open and closed again, and you're left alone in the dark of your own burnout.

It's just a second, but in that moment, you'd rather stay away from Gallifrey than save your baby. But then it's over and the shame is so great that crying isn't enough. You hate yourself too much for tears - the ache of years has dug so deep it went past that centuries ago. You were so frightened … only a second ago … that you were willing to put another (your own son) in the firing line of death, so you could avoid the corrosive effect of days-gone-by-and-yet-to-come. How could you?

And yet... it's _Gallifrey_.

_Don't want to talk - don't want to think - leave me alone._

It all drains into misery, and you drift off.

.

Nightmares.

.

When you wake up, you have no idea how much time has passed. But the tea's cold, and when you stumble back to the console room, Theta's there, awake, in Amy's arms.

"Doctor," Amy greets you.

"Hi," you say, walking over and holding out your hands. Amy passes Theta to you. "Thanks," you say, "I don't know what I'd do without you to help me with him."

She laughs a bit, then looks over your face. "Are you okay?"

"I'm the king of okay," you say.

"You still look tired."

"Where's Rory?"

"He went looking for you a while ago."

"What? I was in the kitchen the whole time."

"I know. But I'm not sure the kitchen stayed as still as you did. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Just a little bit sleepy," you say, not even considering the possibility of mentioning the distorted dreamscapes you just wandered through.

"So, how is he?" Amy looks down at Theta, who has reached for your bowtie.

"He's _clever_," you say. "Look at that. How many days old is he? One? Two? And he's going for colours!" And even though you know you're being ridiculous, you whisper "Red," to him.

"So what, he likes your tie?"

"Do you know anything about babies?" You say. "Humans never have this much control over their own body when they're this young. Oh, who is smart?"

"Doctor?" Rory walks in. "There you are!"

You clear your throat. "Hello. Oh, can you get my stethoscope?" You indicate Theta.

Rory rummages in one of your bigger-on-the-inside coat pockets, which is hanging over the rail of the flight deck, then hands the stethoscope to you. You nod your thanks, put it on, and hesitantly move the end over your son's chest.

Swallow, put it down and pull the other ends out of your ears.

"Well?" Rory questions.

"He'll be fine, alright?" You put your lips to the top of the child's head.

And suddenly, it's not even a question anymore. You'd do anything for him. River would want it. You want it more. The fright can be conquered. Or at least, you'll give it a go and die trying. The guilt that you felt a few minutes ago - how could you ever, ever be so selfish? - rises again in your throat, and it comes out as a question.

"Shall we go?"

Rory and Amy nod.

"Hold him," you say to Amy, "And whatever you do, don't let him get hurt."

"Of course not." Amy presses Theta against her jumper gently, supporting his head (little green eyes peeping over her shoulder) with a fond, firm touch.

Toss the stethoscope away. Flip switches, gears and levers, then stop.

"We're orbiting just outside the Time Lock right now. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Doctor," Amy says, "Get on with it."

"Okay."

You put your hand on the console - pause for a second - this is mad, this is crazy, this is insane - and then you let one go - Another You that was hiding back there.

Oh, it hurts so badly. You squeeze your eyes shut, but you doubt you'd be able to see anything if they were open: you're vaguely aware of pain ripping across the back of your head, of your body slamming against the floor, of the air leaving your chest along with the life you were saving. Breathing burns your lungs. You are tossing about - no stabilizers would work here - and somebody's screaming (it might be you), hurting your ears (as if there wasn't enough agony right now).

And it costs more than one. You never thought - oh, you can feel the bright shining potential of each man inside you. They're lightning strikes hitting you and flashing away, leaving you blind. The hungry, desperate soul of the TARDIS fighting the energy the Time Lock requires, sucking them all unconsciously away.

A fragmented thought gathers in your mind - it's not working, it's not enough, and this is what dying, dying for real is like.

Goodbye.

.

And it's gone.

You lie there, adrenaline searing in your stomach. Work up the courage to open your eyes. And there it is. That light. Oh, that light, seeping through the TARDIS windows. The warm apricot of daytime on …

Stumble up to your knees, rubbing the back of your head. It's cut open, bleeding quite badly. You must have hit it on something. Turn around, and sure enough, the nearest little lever on the console has a sharp edge. What luck.

Your vision is still blurry, but blinking brings the shapes of Amy, Rory, and Theta into better focus. "Are you alright?" you say, moving over to them, touching a hand, fingering a curl of hair.

You scoop the child up, and Amy jumps, before her eyes open, too, and she sees you. "Okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine," you say, inspecting Theta's head, looking for injuries and finding none. "Theta, too. Knocked around a bit, all of us -" you look over at Rory, who is still unconscious, but neither bleeding nor badly brused - "But nothing permanent."

You both sit there for a moment, not trusting yourselves to move, minds fuzzy. You catch your breath staring into your son's eyes, tracing the ridge of his little nose with your finger.

Amy breaks the silence. "But you're hurt," she says, seeing the blood dripping from your hair.

"Not really," you say.

She turns your head, and you let her fuss over you for a second, dabbing the red away, before shaking her off. She resists - "Doctor, honestly, it looks ghastly!" but you ignore her.

Time to inspect your spent lives. There are so many that it doesn't make sense - you count the empty spaces inside. How -

_Oh, River, thank you thank you thank you thank you for your regenerations. At Berlin, remember that? I've put them to good use._

"Are you alright?" You ask Amy again.

"Yeah," she says. "Rory?"

She shakes his shoulder, and he sits up groggily.

"Rory, can you do something about the Doctor's head?" Amy says, and you stand up. "No, it's all right. Just leave it," you say.

And then you realize. How will you break the Time Lock again? You've spent hundreds of thousands of years as an entry fee - and you don't have enough to buy yourself a way out.

"Oh," you sigh, swearing indistinctly while the air rushes out.

"What is it?"

"I've - oh …"

"Doctor?"

"I thought it would only take one to get through," you say.

"One what?"

"It doesn't matter," you reply.

Because while there's life, there's hope.

Right?


	6. Chapter 6

Early update because I'm going to be away for the weekend.

* * *

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

You hand Theta back to his grandmother, and let the Ponds collect themselves while you pull yourself up and inspect the monitor screen. You've landed in the ruins of the Citadel, maybe fifty years relative time till the end of the war. Too awfully close… There will be rubble all around, but that doesn't mean a TARDIS crashing through the sky and smashing down an abandoned building will go unnoticed. Especially a Type 40 - outdated, no longer in use. It will draw attention. Get out, fast!

You don't want to leave your TARDIS - not here - but you'd hate even more to ask her to fly in her condition. She'll take a few days to heal from a landing like that.

Your destination is a few streets away. You have only minutes to get there - if you're very, very lucky, the Time Lords who come investigating will simply assume that your TARDIS was abandoned, and crashed without any drivers.

"Amy, Rory, time to go," you say.

They groan, but you cut them off. "Just do it," you say, and open the door cautiously. "When I say run, run."

Your eyes scan the surroundings, drinking them in. The plaza you've landed in is formed with gently rounding slopes flowing seamlessly downhill, weaving between and sometimes partially covering the fronts of small dwellings that fit perfectly into the artificial, fixed waterfall of flawless glassy gold.

"And these are the _slums_," you whisper to Amy and Rory. Then - "Run!"

It's a mad dash out through the open. The suns' warmth shines on your face, and the air, so perfectly tuned to your lungs, gives you so much energy that you know you could outstrip Rory and Amy in a heartbeat. But you stay with them, rounding a corner and continuing along a narrow alley formed by an abrupt ridge of houses.

"Wouldn't - it - be - less - suspicious - if - we - just - walked?" Amy gasps.

You keep running. Down, into a low, small square, around another corner, into an even narrower back lane.

Stop, pant, hands on knees. Respite for a second, before you have to plunge into another, different race and competition of fear.

"Are we there?" Rory says.

"Yeah," you say.

Look around. You're at the entrance of a honey-coloured depression in the shining wall - a few feet away from a door shaped and decorated like the Gallifreyan rune for 'healing'. It's circular with hard, curling, black detailing.

"Come in here," you say, swallowing your guilt and hesitation, and you all slowly approach the door. You put out your hand, and touch the smooth, old-fashioned keys cut into a curve of the rune.

"What are those for?" Amy says.

"They're used to signal who you are to the person who owns the home," you explain, trying to remember what to do. "Type in a password, if you like. Some are secret and unique, like the ones for 'friend' and 'child'. 'Patient', and, in your words, 'pariah'… um, those are universally known."

"Who'd tell everyone they're an outcast?" Rory asks.

"It's considered respectful to lower yourself," you say. "If you've shamed yourself or society somehow, you can use that for a while. Basically like an apology. If the owners of the house forgive you, they open the door and tell you to use another sign to announce yourself. Still, it's not used very often. Lucky I still know it."

And you click a simple four letter combination into the metal.

After five minutes of standing around, Rory and Amy start to get fidgety. It doesn't quite make sense to you, but you ignore it, and wait there, hands behind your back.

You notice blood dripping onto your fingers. Has that little cut on your head really been bleeding that badly? You wonder, with horror, if it has left a trail. Surely not. You glance behind you - all clean. It's fine. Still, why would something so minor be bleeding so much? You wipe the blood from your hair, best you can, and scrub away the stains on the floor with the heel of your shoe, waving away Amy and Rory's worries till they go quiet again.

Three more minutes of waiting, and Amy sighs. "Are they going to answer or not?"

Turn and laugh. "You think this is a long time to wait," you say, realizing.

"Well, yeah," Amy says. "We are on the run, and things."

"Yes, but I doubt anyone expects us to be here - we're probably safe for a minute. Even if they do, this is about a normal amount of time to wait. I stuck around outside someone's door for an hour once, before I figured that nobody likes a government official, and left."

"You worked for the government here?"

"Yup."

"Wha-"

"Sh!" You hiss. "Sorry. I think I hear someone coming."

The door opens.

She's there.

It takes you a second to realize she's regenerated. It must have been old age. Where she used to look young, elderliness has taken over - her hair is short and brown - the face you used to look up into is completely gone.

In that moment, you see her eyes (light brown, now) narrow just a fraction, as she notices the same thing about you.

"Doctor," she greets you.

"Healer," you say - nervous smile, appealing for acceptance, even though it's an insane bid.

"You brought humans?" she whispers, looking over your shoulder.

"Sorry," you say.

"Come in," she snaps, and you wince.

The first thing she does, after the door is closed and bolted, is slap you.

You take it without flinching. After all, you deserve it.

She takes your odd little group silently into the main room of the house. It's relatively large, with a ceiling that shoots straight up for about thirty feet before it meets the glassy roof, which the sunslight glows gold through. At the far end, there is a collection of furniture carved from stone and draped only in shimmering orange material, for looks and not comfort. A smooth, flat table rises out of the floor, but it's so low to the ground it might as well be an obstacle designed to trip you.

The seats are cold to the touch, and you see the Ponds shiver slightly as they lower themselves into them. You wipe your hair free of blood again, and sit down.

"Why are you here?" The Healer says.

"I really need you," you say.

"For what?"

You hold your hands out to Amy, and, without a word, she passes Theta to you.

"He -" you start.

"I'm not going to look at him until I know the whole story," she says.

You glance down at Theta. He's doing even worse than before, as far as you can tell. Put your hand over his, and he grabs your pinky finger, giving a tiny moan.

"Can't you do _something_?"

"Not until you explain what's going on. Who are these humans? Is this their child? Why have you brought them here?"

Take a deep breath.

"He's my baby," you say.

Mentally watch the bomb drop, whistling as it goes.

"But I can't sense that," she says, obviously guessing at the truth as she gets tenser and tenser.

Detonation engage.

"He's part human," you mutter.

The Healer sits back, shoulders taut, face unchanging. "So you went and had fun with some lower race, and you're bringing me the mess that happened afterwards?"

You wince. Anyone else talking to you like that … well, you would yell at them. But her?

"It's not like that."

"What's it like, then? This one must be special, am I right? This has probably happened dozens of times. I expected so much more from you. But you went and danced with the insects at the edge of the universe, just because you enjoyed it."

Oh, it stings.

Alone, you might back down, mumble something about how River was, after all, half Time Lady, and maybe offer a fragmented apology. But the sight of Amy and Rory sitting there, so in the dark and yet certainly aware enough to catch the insults - that gives you the extra spark you need. And it flares.

"River Song, this child's mother," you say, "was my _wife._ And I'm not sorry. I thought you, out of everyone, might understand. But even if you couldn't get past your superiority complex and see human beings for what they are, I thought you might at least be able to keep your mouth shut and save a life."

She looks at you, tongue running along teeth.

"So, why do you need me?" She says, after a long silence.

A warning bell suddenly clangs in your head and your hearts skip to double speed. Something's gone wrong. Nothing to do with her - it's only, the soft, small hand that was curled tightly around your finger has loosened its grip.

"I think you're the only person who can save him."

"And why should I?"

"Because he's your bloody grandchild!" you explode. "Mum, we're running out of time. Please, just take him!'

Every nerve in your skin is sharp as your hand meets the Healer's, as she gains possession of the fragile bundle that has just stopped breathing.

* * *

I _extremely a_ppreciate reviews! Thank you so much again for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

The Healer is frozen for a second, then gives the baby back to you. "He's your son," she says. "Save him."

You open your mouth in shock, trying to say something - then realize why she isn't helping him. Amy and Rory start to protest, but you cut them off - sharp, quick, and _loud._

"Shut up, shut _up_," you say. "Not now." Fall off the chair onto the floor, lay Theta flat on the low table in front of you. Tear through thousands of years of memories, memories you really don't need right now, because there's only one thought that you have to have -

There it is, you've done this before -

Hands trembling like they haven't for centuries, you slide a finger into Theta's mouth, flattening his tongue down, then tilt his head back slightly. Your two middle fingers pump thirty flashes of pressure on his chest, then you bend down and fill the child's tiny lungs. Twice.

Thirty more beats, trying your best to be gentle through the panic. Two breaths. Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

_It's not working -_

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Left hand index finger on his wrist, which is lifeless.

Repeat.

Repeat.

A pulse.

Oh thank you. Thank you.

You drop your right hand, which is aching, but continue the rhythm, breathing into his nose and mouth for two seconds each minute. Until you feel his hand brush your cheek.

Fall back, dizzy. Probably more the fear and adrenaline than giving your oxygen away …

Rory and the Healer dive toward Theta - quite right too. There's probably something else you should do, but truth is it's been so long since you preformed anything of the sort on a Time Lord that you can't remember if there's anything else. The Healer will help with that. And Rory's a nurse.

Amy kneels down next to you. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," you say.

"Is she your mother, then?" she says in a low voice, glancing over at the Healer.

You give a small smile but don't answer.

"Good," the Healer says, sitting up from where Theta is. "Seems to be alright."

"Rory?" you ask.

"He's fine," Rory says.

Give a long sigh.

"Right," the Healer says. "Putting him in stasis."

"Alright."

"Until we work out something better."

"Thanks," you say, feeling the planet's gravity on every inch of your body. Does Gallifrey have a stronger pull than your TARDIS? You don't remember any place ever tugging on the pit of your stomach like this. Must be relief then.

"And you," she says, "Are bleeding quite badly."

"It's nothing," you say.

"No," she says, "You're getting too pale. No wonder you've regenerated since last time, if you can't take care of yourself."

"It's just a little scrape!" You protest.

"Might need stitches," she says. "Quick."

"I don't -" but a wave of black dizziness covers your vision and suddenly you're sitting back hard against the chair above you.

"Thought so," she says. "Come, we're going downstairs. To the healing room."

You blink back the darkness, well as you can. "Theta first."

"Where do you _think _the baby needs to go?"

"Right," you say, feeling stupid.

"Not the humans, though," she says, and, taking Theta, sets off across the room, purple robes catching the air she leaves behind.

"Alright," you say, and, after hauling yourself up, start after her, crossing the smooth polished floor to a sunken stairwell on the opposite side of the room.

You have one foot on the top step (a dark, murky, marble thing) when you realize the Ponds are still sitting in their former positions - Rory kneeling on the floor, Amy on the edge of a seat - looking awkward.

"Well, come along, Ponds," you say. They think you're going to leave them behind while their grandson's life is on the line? Since when have you obeyed rules at their expense?

They hurry towards you, and together you descend - your feet getting tangled in your anxiety. And since the stair curls in a descending circle, your dizziness reaches a high. You don't slow, though.

The lower level has just as many windows as the upper one - sweeping ones that make up an entire wall. The ceiling isn't quite as high, though. The healing room takes up the entire space, dotted symmetrically by shelves that fuse with the ground.

Theta's lying in a metal contraption, and, even though you recognize it as a stasis chamber, you have to stumble over and give it a scan with your screwdriver before you can let it be. Even then, you have to stand still, looking at him, purposefully loosening one tense muscle in your body after another.

"What are you planning on doing?" You ask the Healer.

"Nothing, while the humans are here."

You look at her sharply. "That isn't fair. They're family. Family is allowed in here, right?"

She stays silent.

"Right?" you demand.

"Sit down," she says.

"What?"

"Sit down, and I'm going to see to that cut on your head."

"No!" You pocket your screwdriver. "Forget it! I'm not -"

"There's nothing I can do for Theta until I get some proper readings from him. Just like back upstairs, where I couldn't resuscitate him, because I didn't know what his human biology required. The same principle applies to general healing, so I need scans. That may take a while. So sit down and, for Rassilon's sake, stop whining."

You clench your jaw, but move over to her and drop into the chair she offers. It faces the door, as well the Ponds standing there. "Well, sit down too," you tell them, and they take places near the door, chairs flowing out of the wall.

The Healer rummages in a drawer. You can hear opening and shutting noises, cupboards full of medical supplies.

You look over at Theta. The Healer takes your head in a strong hand and turns your face to the front again, using your hair as a grip.

"Right, so -" you try to start, but a cry of indignant pain from your own mouth breaks through. "Ow! No anesthetic, nothing?" From what you can feel, she has pulled a needle through the skin on the back of your head.

"You don't require painkiller," she says. "You'll be fine without it."

You grumble quietly, but she doesn't comment, and keeps on tugging the broken edges of your cut together with some kind of surgical thread.

"What happened?" she says after a minute or two.

"I just hit it on my TARDIS, somewhere. I don't know why -"

"Been too long since something Gallifreyan hurt you, I think," she says. "Human-built things, it's not like they could injure you too badly."

"Oh," you say, feeling stupid (a rather novel sense) for the tenth time today. "Of course."

"Honestly, Doctor," she says, tugging the needle through your skin.

.

"Right," she says, after five minutes or so. "Don't hit it again, and you should be fine. It'll heal within a few days."

You stand up. "Thanks," you say.

"I'm simply doing my job," she replies.

"Yeah, well." You shrug. "What now?"

"I suppose you don't have anywhere to stay?"

"No, of course not," you say. "I don't - I mean - I don't know if everyone would be really pleased to see me."

She looks at you, scrutinizing, measuring you up. "Well, there's enough room for one."

"Healer," you say, "Where they go, I go, and vice versa. You can't just throw them out in the city."

"What's stopping me?" she says, and turns away.

"You're not going to," you say. "You're going to give them a room. I don't care if it's in the basement, but if it is, then that's where I'll sleep. You'd think - your own son - but of course, what with the Peace Crime last week and all, maybe the basement would work best."

"Are you threatening me?" she says.

"I never would," you say, honestly. "It was a Peace Crime. What could I do with that on Gallifrey? Plant a garden?"

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying - I'm just saying that you should treat them better than you treat me. They're guests, I'm a failure. Right? That's what I am, right?"

"But you're still a Time Lord."

"That doesn't matter," you say. "Species doesn't matter. Look, it's not like they're not sentient." You wave over at the Ponds with a smile. "They can hear everything we're saying, too, so keep it polite, eh?"

There's a long moment of silence. "I don't know why I'm doing this," she says, "But here I go. Your_ friends _can have a room on the lowest level. You can have one beside them, if that's what you want." The last bit isn't a request, it's a jab at your willingness to share status with humans, but it doesn't bother you.

"And Theta?" You say.

"I don't know why I'm doing this," she says again. "Theta can stay. You'll help me build a better life support for him, tomorrow, and you'll tell me what in Rassilon's name you're doing here."

"Thank you," you say, striding forward to grasp her hand. "Honestly, thank you, I can't believe -"

"Stop, just stop," she says. "Go upstairs, get refreshed. Take the human female - if you must - but the male stays with me. If I'm going to build a proper life-support for your baby, I'll need advice on human genetics."

"They have names, you know," you say. "Amy, Rory, meet the Healer. Healer - Amy, Rory. Rory, d'you want to stay?"

"Is it safe?" He says, eyes scanning the Healer.

You laugh. "'Course it's safe! Bark/bite ratio's nice and large."

The Healer's face remains stony. You wet your lips, not feeling your smile around your eyes.

"It's okay, then, I suppose," Rory sighs, "I can stay."

"Good man!" You clap him on the shoulder. "Thank you," you add, then head out the door with Amy, looking back many times.

.

It takes you a few hours to get to a place where you can take the larger part of your mind off the Healer and Theta. You reassure Amy so often that your own logic beats you down; Theta will be fine while you're here. And the place is so familiar that you can't help but begin to brighten up. In everyday life, you often try to lose yourself in details and forget about all the things that beat you down, and this once you're actually able to. For the most part.

And really, it feels so good to just share, share and enjoy.

So good to be home.

.

"Ah! The observatory! Love this room." Walk in and look around, beaming. "Star maps, used to have those memorized. Oh!" You dash over, take various globes and spindly instruments off the shelves. You turn them over, then replace them, bubbly with excitement, before rushing off. Unroll a list of planet positions, run your eyes over it for a second, stuff it back its place. Pick up a lovely pen with a long attachment that sticks out from it at a forty-five degree angle. "Watch, watch, watch," you say to Amy. You move over to a table that is covered with a piece of paper, then place the spherical ending of the pen's attachment on the table. The little ball on the end magnetizes, gripping the table beneath the paper fiercely. Now, the pen is secured but free to move in rings. "Like so," you say, and draw a thick, graceful circle - perfect with the help of the magnet. Adjust the degree of the attachment to make a smaller circle. Gleefully pick the pen up and put it down in other places, covering the main circle in intricate mini-versions of itself. "Oh, I could spend hours doing that," you say. "Circular Gallifreyan! Gorgeous stuff. Devine."

Snatch the paper off the table and hand it to her. "I wrote your name! Keep it, I could make loads! I have to get some of this stuff for my TARDIS. No, that's not right, I just have to find the right room in there somewhere, I swear there was one but I lost it years ago. Not as brilliant as this place, though!" Spread your arms. "Oh yes!"

"Doctor!" Amy grins. "Calm down!"

"Oh, no, I don't think so, Pond! Look, look! The solar system we're in right now!" You pick up a fragile orange bubble made of some kind of spun, brittled liquid, and toss it in the air. Instead of shattering against the ground, it lands in empty space and rolls across a breeze, before splitting into a dozen separate globes. They resolve themselves into the positions that you know so well. "That's Gallifrey, and that all is Kasterborous. Those -" you poke each bubble - "are the two suns out there!" You look up to the roof to signal the sky. "See, Gallifrey is positioned between - oh, hello." You watch as another eddy of air causes the represented corner of the cosmos to swirl. "Oh, good, a window! I can show you for real." You throw open a carved set of wall-length shutters, to reveal a small room adjoining the observatory. At the end is a soaring window, which stands open.

Just the sight of the rolling land beyond makes your heartsrate slow down. Makes you want to just sit and look for hours.

"How can there be so many rooms in this tiny-" Amy stops at a look from you, then sighs with exasperation. "Don't you Time Lords ever get _tired_ of 'bigger on the inside'?"

"Don't you humans ever get _tired _of 'smaller on the inside'?" You say, mimicking her tone.

She rolls her eyes the slightest bit. "So, you were saying?"

"Um, Gallifrey is positioned between two stars," you say, still looking at her. She has a glazed look already, the heel of her palm digging into her cheek as her elbow rests on the windowsill. Astronomy must not be her thing. You turn back to the sky. "Gallifrey's exactly in the middle. One sun rises in the South, and one comes up in the North." A smile slides your mouth open, and you take deep breaths of the thick, sustaining air. Calming down. Absorbing it all.

"And, Amelia Pond," you say, "We have the very best meteor showers here." Laugh for sheer joy one last time. "Imagine," you say giddily, "You people have green grass! That's so wrong. I forgot how strange it was." Finish the last two notes of the laugh, then sigh and look out toward the mountains.

"You must have missed it a lot," she says.

"You have no idea."

"And it must be hard. I mean… after everything."

There's a drawn out, uncomfortable moment, filled with nothing but the sound of the both of you breathing.

"To answer your earlier question, Amy -" you start.

"What?"

"You asked, a while ago, if it would be safer to simply walk here, instead of running."

"Oh." She frowns. "Yeah. I guess I did."

"Well, the reason we had to run was - Time Lords know each other. Whether they've regenerated since they last met or not. That's why my mother knew it was me. If I had gone slower, it wouldn't have tricked anyone into thinking I was someone different."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

"Okay." There's a pause, and then she says, "So she is your mother."

"You have a mother, I have a mother, ohh!" You raise your hands, then drop them. "Big deal."

"No need to get grumpy," she says. "Of course everyone has parents. I just never thought about yours before."

"Well, not everyone," you say.

"What?"

A voice startles you both. "It's traditional on Gallifrey to loom the children," it says.

She's there. The Healer. "Hi," you say, your voice suddenly going higher for no reason.

"Stop acting like I'm about to hurt you, stupid child," she says. Amy looks affronted, and opens her mouth to give a snarky reply, but you shake your head at her.

"She means _you_?" Amy realizes out loud. She laughs. "Doctor, being taken down a few notches today, huh?"

You frown and fold your arms. "What's… up?" You ask the Healer.

She shakes her head at your word use. "Time to eat."

"Ah!" Amy's eyes brighten. "Gallifreyan _food_. So, when you eat, what's _that_ called, here?"

"Dinner," you say.

"Oh."

o**O**o

"Ugh. This is really bland."

"Just… eat it, Amy." You give yet another apologetic look across the table to the Healer. You don't even want to think about how awkward it will be when the second course comes in. It's been bad enough so far. Rory has settled into the fact that Time Lords eat standing up without a comment, but Amy had to mention it. And then lean on the table. And then complain about the food. She's still resting her elbows on the soft, tall stone tabletop, making you curl and uncurl your fingers in silent embarrassment. Oh Rassilon, when will it end? But this is just beginning, right? _Kill me now._

But see, you've slipped back into your old habits. You've already caught yourself using Rassilon's name as a curse, and everything at this meal is coming one hundred percent naturally to you.

"I like it," Rory ventures. You give him a small smile. Good man. Not that he's broken the ice - simply made it thicker, since it's plain odd to comment on the food you're served at a Gallifreyan table - but it was a brave try.

All you can think about is that Amy and Rory are representing the human race right now.

(Really, representing who River was).

Theta's downstairs, still, and of course your brain keeps attacking you, turning your throat dry and your mouth sour, when it remembers. But the rest of your body is moving by itself, and the patterns feel so beautiful - not that there's anything particularly enjoyable about drinking soup from a shallow bowl and passing it around, but it's all so familiar. Things you haven't thought about for centuries are coming back - the times you put up a fuss, as a child, about having this first, tasteless course, pouting through your mother's explanations of how good it was for your health.

The bowl's nearly empty now. You hold your breath, hoping Amy won't comment about her relief at the fact it's being taken away - she does. The Healer leaves, coming back with another, deeper bowl. She lifts the grating that covers the top of it, and you stand still as several tiny, flightless birds, stunted wings flapping against the unhelpful air, scamper across the table.

"Right," she says, settling at the table and eyeing the Ponds.

Well, you'll have to show them what to do by example. Though it's a bit obvious. This doesn't have to be so strange - here.

You grab one of the birds, and pull it from the middle of the table towards you, being as gentle as you can. Pick it up in your palms, holding it low.

Your mother gives a sharp, annoyed intake of breath. "Don't - _kill_ your food, Theta!"

Theta? Honestly? "Mum," you shoot back, slightly offended. You weren't being _that_ immature.

She squeezes her lips together. "Doctor," she corrects herself.

"Healer." You dip your head.

Under the edge of the table, you point the bird's head towards your wrist, holding it upside down.

Snap.

It flaps around, but you hold its wings to its body, and soon it goes still.

When you finally rest it on the table in front of you, you start plucking off the feathers and letting them melt in your mouth. Like a six-year-old licking the icing off a cupcake.

Oh, it is delicious.

You see Amy and Rory staring at you. "What?" you say. "It died a nicer death than half your Earth food does. Eat up, it's fantastic."

o**O**o

"So. The great civilization of the Time Lords."

"What are you saying?"

"You eat your meat raw …"

"You eat your vegetables raw."

"And alive!"

"Fresher like that."

"You're not seriously defending -" Amy shakes her head.

"Did I ever say it was a nice place to grow up?" You say. "Come on, though. Not that bad. Oh, it's just good to be back."

You're standing on the balcony, looking out at the fire in the sky. One sun has set and the other is simmering on the black, cutting line of the horizon. The air is a beautiful warm temperature, and the stars are coming out. Oh, glory, so many of them. Nebulas and supernovas and star-strung galaxies. They show you why you longed to run away and see them closer, but they remind you how lovely it is to be home, as well. The air smells like smoke, in the best way.

The smell stays with you when you go downstairs, lay your stiff body out on the bed - an alcove with a generous curve, like a hammock. You breathe the air deep as the darkness closes. Through the long, content hours of your eyes staying open but seeing nothing.

The time flicks by.

.

The dark turns the colour of spilled ink over the confused sky. It all reels round from safety to fear in a second. You expected it, in the end. Maybe not this soon. Oh, they couldn't have given you one night?

Someone stands in the door. If you put up a fight, it will just be worse for you, but you do it anyway, and you're right, it hurts. Wouldn't be surprised if your skull is half fractured.

"How did you know I was here?" You whisper.

"Healer's a good citizen," someone says. "Coming soft, now?"

But you still struggle, and so they hit you again and drag you up, out, into the streets, the wind blowing soft and warm on your skin, the gorgeous smell of time ruffling your hair and harmonizing with the relief that turns your bones to water.

They didn't stop for Theta, Amy, or Rory.

They don't know about your family.

And you give yourself a ray of hope for the stumbling journey through the silent streets to the Citadel:

They may only be intending to kill you.


	8. Chapter 8

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

At least you can tell when morning dawns, that's an unbelievable relief.

You lie, arms stretched out on either side, and feel the morning light spread like honey over your skin.

The night's over. The Ponds might find out you're gone now. You hope not.

Raise your head, as far as you can with your arms tied, the muscles in your shoulders straining where they meet your arms. You can feel pulses of blood (still inside your body, but probably not for long) crushing the inside of your skull - headache, bad one. Ugh.

You can't see much, just a clean, blank room, shaped like a bubble, with curving walls that look like cracked glass. A large shard has been taken out of the rough pattern, and black walls stretch behind the empty space, lining a narrow shaft of light. The ray slants sharply downwards - you're a little way underground. At the top, the smallest slice of orange sky makes a line to frame the bleak window.

Right. Right, out there, that's the Wailing Courtyard. _Lovely. Oh -_ even though you know it's stupid and worse than useless, your body convulses violently, fighting the restraints like a wild thing. Then you let it go and suck in a deep breath. You can feel a sick, hot wave of terror rising in your chest, and you almost throw up.

And so you turn your mind away from the fear of the future. It's a stretch, but you need comfort, you need to know how the Ponds are doing, and you reach out for your mother.

Everything's fog for a second - but then you can feel her. And the Ponds, much fainter because of their humanity, glowing softly in the same vicinity. Staying well away from anything to do with memory and jumping from sensation to sensation (but dwelling most on sight), you nose around for what they're doing.

It's an invasion of privacy, but being drugged and dragged into the Citadal can make people ignore things like etiquette.

Amy comes into focus. She's pacing up and down - they're back in the living room of the Healer's house. "But he can't just be gone," she says.

"You saw for yourself," the Healer says. "Bed empty. No note. _Gone_. He could be dead. He could have been seen. Someone might have reported him."

"How can you say that like that?" Amy stops, arms folded, looking at the Healer with an incredulous frown. "This is the Doctor we're talking about. We love him, and we've only known him for a few years. You're his mother. Don't you care where he's gone?"

She looks at Amy. "Your Doctor has failed me many times."

"Does that matter?" She throws a hand up, then balls it up into a fist and rests it on her waist. "You said he could be dead. He could be dying. And you're just sitting there!"

The Healer shakes her head. "I do not see why you expect me to care about him."

"Because he's your flesh and blood!" Amy's laugh is a little hysterical.

"All the more reason to let death take what it wants."

Rory sees warning lights and grabs Amy's arm, but she shakes him off and strides to about an inch in front of the Healer. "How - can you say that?" She growls.

Rory sighs. "No matter what he's done, he is your family. Doesn't that matter on Gallifrey?"

"On Gallifrey, the children are born from genetic replicators," the Healer says. "They are loomed in groups of cousins. Our race chose this long ago as a higher form of reproduction. They thought we had advanced. But the Doctor, the Doctor wouldn't take the normal way to life. He was born in shame. The way lower races, the way humans are. So no, family does not mean much to me. It merely means a secret I had to keep for years."

Surprisingly, that stings. You knew the information, you knew what she thought - and of course, it was supremely exhibited last night - but being in her mind and _feeling _her indifference to you - ugh. Not much comfort there. You take a bit of heart as Amy launches some kind of tirade - Rory joining in a bit this time - but they can't move the Healer. She's not like them. To her, they're just … animals. And you pull away before you can hear the rest of the Ponds' defence of you - it isn't worth it, to experience your mother's coldness.

As the world drains back into reality, someone comes into your little room.

You attempt to raise your head again, and catch a glimpse of the new Time Lord. And when he speaks - "Hello, Doctor. It's an honour to meet you again." - you realize that he was the one who spoke to you, yesterday night, who dragged you off.

His face is mild and friendly, his words ernest. He's good-looking, but dressed in plain, simple work robes. Grey, expressive eyes. Hair: ginger (wavy, little curls. Just what you need, because of course those ringlets remind you of River and Theta).

You look away. "Can you just tell me what's going on?"

"I expect you already know most of it," he says, "But politeness isn't totally forgotten, even in the War." He pauses in his adjustment of various instruments (thankfully outside of the range of your sight) to give you a tiny smile.

"Right."

"First, you're to be tried for a Peace Crime, and your mind must be weakened so we can take the truth out of it. It's just proper. You were the Lord President - surely you tried criminals like this, yourself."

"No," you say. "No. I was President during peace. I thought it was an emergency procedure."

"You're right. My respect for you grows. You remember tradition in the years before the War. It's forgotten in many minds, as the War takes up all of our effort and focus."

"Even on Gallifrey? I thought that was only soldiers. Who forgot the peace, I mean."

"It's that way for everyone."

"Great."

"Secondly, sir, your name is unaccounted for."

Your heart hits an electric field with every beat, instead of bumping up against your chest. The name. The name. So they know.

Play it dumb, right…?

"So you're going to take it now? That's just -" you choke for a second. "Just not - just silly. Old grudge, all this bother for it?"

"It isn't merely tradition," the man says, looking surprised. "The name is to be used."

Right - play it dumb, for all the act is worth. Why? Because admitting the imminent end of the universe is probably not good for your sanity. And that's the one thing you need to keep, if you're going to prevent that end.

"Used for what? How?"

The man merely nods his head respectfully again. "Surely you know more than I do," he says. "I do not fully understand it myself."

You close your eyes and say nothing.

"You don't have to be so modest," the man says. "I know your understanding is great. I'd like to be like you one day, in that."

"Probably not wishing to end up under the Wailing Courtyard, though, eh?" You say.

He tugs a pair of slick white gloves over his fingers.

"Probably not, sir," he smiles.

You swallow.

"Here -" and he extends one of his pale-plastered hands towards you.

Your bonds release, and you take his hand out of pure instinct.

The slick glove material slides on your sweaty palms.

He guides you into a chair in front of a table laden with twisted metal things, switches, and buttons. There, he ties you down again. Secures your legs and one arm - odd, until your glance falls on the rack of instruments the man was fiddling with a second ago.

Cold sweat drenches you and your hearts flutter so fast it hurts. You wet your lips and sit there, very still.

He takes his place opposite you, and picks up something that looks a little like a pair of pliers with the fondness of someone picking up a loved one's hand.

"This doesn't have to happen," he says. His voice tells you that he'd rather not be doing it, that he's on your side. It's really charming, and you wish you could believe him. You wipe your sweaty face with your free hand and then fold the fingers into a fist, rubbing each one of your fingernails against the skin. They're treasures, now.

"You told River Song your name, you can tell me."

You moan, then catch yourself. You're the Doctor. And you're not allowed to break down. Not now, not ever. "My mind isn't weak," you say, jaw hardening. "I don't care that you know about River. That's surface information. And you're not getting anywhere deeper."

"Surface information? No - no, that has to do with your name. That's deep, with all respect. That's deep in your mind."

Fight back, shake your head. "Sorry. She's my wife, that's obvious, the Healer could have told you that. And you're trained to pick up clues, aren't you? Sherlock Holmes style."

Of course he wouldn't understand that reference, but he gives no clue that it's gone over his head. "Since when do people tell their wives their names?"

"Since when do people still _have_ their names when they reach maturity? Since when do Gallifreyans marry? No, you are a professional information extractor - that's your job, and that's what you're doing."

"I'm not here because of a job." His face is honest. "I'm here because I want to make this easy. I really don't want you to suffer, sir."

You laugh.

"No," he says, grey eyes widening in sincerity. "I know you can just tell me. Just tell me, quietly, and it won't hurt anything."

You just look at him.

He holds out a hand.

You don't move.

He flips a switch on the tabletop near him, and your free hand is pulled - like a magnet - to the table. Once there, it freezes. You feel electricity shudder through it - a powerful, alien, pulsing feeling that you never get used to, no matter how often you're electrocuted - and then it fades and the man, eyebrows furrowed apologetically, singles out your index finger and pulls it up. Like someone picking a thread out of a piece of sewing.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the teeth of the pincers clamp onto the little line of nail that protrudes from the round skin of your finger.

Somewhere in the back of your head you wish you had a habit of nail-biting.

The first tug is not so bad. It's terrifying, but it doesn't hurt. And then the second comes and the breath evaporates like mist in your throat. The sweat stands out from your skin in a sheet of clammy fever-sickness, your stomach turns inside out - eyes rolling back, mouth splitting in a smile.

Because somehow it's so much easier to deal with when you're smiling.

"Just tell me anything," the man coaxes.

It's like the moment, back in the TARDIS, when your first instinct was self-preservation - and your mind begins flipping through random details - about anything - that you could give away to stop the pain for a second.

You don't realize how scared you are until a moment later, when it crashes down on your skull. You shake your head - you can't tell him anything, telling one thing leads to more - and the hours, days, jump out at you. The ten shields of hardened skin that he still has left to play with - it's going to take so long. Who knows -

"Oh, no, sir, it'll last until you tell us something," he says, voice still a bit apologetic, but firm.

How are you going to stick this out?

It's always been hard for you to lose track of time, but your perception of it fades in and out. It's at the moment when the first fingernail leaves your skin completely that each second stand out, clear and raw, that your terror kicks up to panic, that the walls of the room seem tight and claustrophobic. You can't, you can't do this. You let out the first scream of the session. And as the hours ahead press against your mouth and nose like a warm, suffocating cloth, you begin pleading, no tears, just a low, logical mumble that you're sure any human would be persuaded by. But a Time Lord - a Time Lord conditioned to do things like this? He just smiles sadly, patronizingly, and begins working on the next finger, handsome face firmly lined with concentration.

Your arm jerks violently, escaping the magnet for a split-second, and a bolt of electricity shoots up through it. You gasp; the current is _inside_ your hand, inside your bones - splitting them from within. And when it recedes, not only is your arm fixed to the table again, but the joint of your wrist is shattered.

"Sorry," the man says, wincing in sympathy. "Please don't struggle anymore, I hate to see that."

And he proceeds to touch a nerve which makes your arm jerk again. Producing the same result.

"Do you know why you're doing this?" You pant when he reaches your ring finger. "Do you know what you're doing?"

To your surprise, his eyebrows dive and the way he looks away from you isn't simply ignoring - it's a little vulnerable.

"Do you know what a name is? What it will do?" You press on.

He bends his head over your hand even more.

"You don't," you realize out loud, chest heaving, wishing you could wipe the sudden, hopeful sweat off your face. Because he's stopped, for a moment. "Do they not trust you enough to tell you what you're doing?"

He laughs. "I'm sorry," he says, "You're not getting me with that. I'm not going to let you off."

"You don't have to," - your voice shakes, saying that - "Only, let me tell you what you want to know. Never mind them, _you_ want to know what you're doing."

"I know that our names were sung out of time," he says. "I know that they're the most powerful forces in the multiverse. That's all I need."

You jump, desperate, down a crazy avenue of persuasion. "Don't you feel wronged, that - that the Academy took you name, takes all our names, makes them worthless?"

He meets your eyes. "Look where resisting gets you. Too much pain to bear then, too much pain to bear now. I'd rather not have my name."

And you get nothing else from him.

o**O**o

They've given you a handful of hours to rest while they call what is left of the High Gallifreyan council together. You lie, eyes closed, head thrown back against the smooth wall of the cell they've taken you to. Made of some kind of polished glass, but not cracked this time.

You can feel your exhaustion in every quivering muscle, and a constant stream of thanks that it's over pours from your wandering mind. Thank you, thank you, thank goodness for this little space of rest.

When you've recovered the ability to breathe normally, to think, you open your eyes and bring your hand up in front of them. Try to turn it, and feel the shock of the broken bones - twist it round with help from your other hand. Then you blink at the backs of the fingers, crusted in blood - fingernails completely gone, raw red skin shining where they used to be.

Apparently, your mind hasn't recovered completely, because the only word it registers is "_hurts_".

You blink some more and put the hand down.

Of course, it ends too soon, and they're back again, helping you up, making sure you can stand. You don't feel like you can, but leaning on your captors doesn't appeal to the hard knuckle of pride that you still have left, so you refuse their offers of help.

The guards set off, and you stride along with them, ignoring your exhaustion.

Up, up, up into the main council hall of the Time Lords. It's crumbling into rubble at the corners, testament to the long, hard war, but most of it is still draped in glory and pride, burnt orange jewels and expansive marble floors projecting an atmosphere of importance.

And yes, you stop and gape up at the vast domed ceiling for a second.

It's more magnificent than you remember - or maybe it's made to be more intimidating when you're standing in trial than when you're judging as Lord President.

Slowly your little group moves to the centre of the floor, into the eye of a large, circular rune inlaid in the floor.

A chain lies there, snaking out of the floor, and they secure it above your hand. A shock goes through you - right, the bones are broken. Of course, the manacle tightening around your wrist isn't going to feel good. They couldn't have put it over your right one, which is fine?

Over you hangs a sea of faces. Time Lords and Ladies in their ceremonial robes.

"Hi," you say into the echoing silence. "Lovely morning. How are we all getting on?"

A voice meets yours, and you squint up into the rows and rows of the council to find the Lord President Rassilon himself. "The accused will remain silent until invited to speak," he says. "Doctor. You are found guilty of a peace crime - deviating from express commands given to you by a higher authority in order to spare lives - and for abandoning the war. You fled your duty for three years. For this, and the excess mercy shown towards our enemies, an action which is designated as treason: for these and more, you are condemned to death, a sentence that will be carried out within seven days."

"Blimey," you say, licking your lips. "Don't I get a chance to defend?"

"Why should you?"

"I'd rather live a little longer."

"And you'd tell us lies. And if not, then the truth would condemn you. That is all there is to this."

Well, that's true. Actually, you've got away easy if that's all they're going to do - kill you. Maybe you can get the Healer to send your TARDIS back through the Lock somehow - somehow - if you think for a week straight, you'll be able to think something up - and Amy, Rory, and Theta can get back home.

You wish River were here. She would be able to fly them out, she could do something. (She could stand here and hold your hand.)

A pang shoots through your hearts, so you turn your mind away.

Still, though, you have got away easily if all they're going to do is execute you.

But no. Your hope sinks to your toes; Rassilon is speaking again.

"And as you die, your name will be taken from you, and used in the Time War."

So their extractor knew what he was talking about. You start shaking. There's nothing you can do about it, it's completely involuntary, and you force your limbs back into their still state as soon as you've recovered from the horror, tossed over you like a bucket of ice water.

You knew this would happen, you knew this would happen, how could you have been so stupid? To guess they might not - why wouldn't they? And isn't this what the Silence predicted all along? You search for a sympathetic face somewhere in the rows and rows of Time Lords behind you, and your eyes catch the Healer's. _Your mother._ Sitting there while they do this, say this. Does she care?

"Court dismissed," he says, and you tense, waiting for her to speak out. But the sound doesn't come. "Bring him back to me when he's sufficiently weakened," Rassilon says, and the ginger guard unlocks your wrist and leads you from the hall.


	9. Chapter 9

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

You're about ready to sleep. Just after the trial, they hung you up by the wrists (one broken, still - oh, it hurt). At least your feet were touching the floor, but after a while, your knees gave and then the pain was dizzying.

But you've kept your eyes open. Because it's easier to see light when your eyelids aren't pressed down. And you don't want to sleep. The nightmares would be worse than they normally are. Heaven knows you don't want that.

You're to have a visitor, they say, and you hang, trying to convince your legs to prop you up every now and again, counting time.

Blink up at the whiteness of the ceiling, of the cell, and then a door is opening and she's stepping through.

'Course, it would be her.

"Hi," you greet the Healer. "How's it going?"

"They've let you off nicely, so far," she observes.

You lift your eyebrows. "Yeah. I suppose. Wait, no, not getting it, how is this nice?"

"Just fingernails?" She says.

You laugh. "Just fingernails. Right." _Just _fingernails.

"This afternoon probably won't be a very pleasant experience. They'll want to know why you're on Gallifrey."

"I can hardly wait anyway, you don't have to get me all excited. Appreciate the thought, though."

She takes a breath. "I told them I don't know anything."

You blink, laugh, choke. _"Thank you."_

"It wasn't a service," she says. "I _don't_ know anything. The less they know, the more they'll need to get from you. I don't see why you should thank me."

There's a pause. Are you just hoping too hard, or does it seem like she's covering up for a moment of kindness? There are things she could have given away.

Not much, though.

She starts again, like she never stopped. "But I'll keep the baby. And those humans. I do my duty to the council, but I don't see why they should know about your _family -_"the word is an insult in her mouth -"As well. They don't need them. Of course, the ones you brought will be killed in the last."

"Not if I can help it," you say, face set.

"But you can't," she says.

"You do your part, I'll do mine," you say.

"You deceive yourself."

You decide not to answer that. "Do you think you can heal him? Theta?"

"I know I can," she says.

You beam.

"So worked up over a half-breed baby," she says.

"Can I tell you about River?" You whisper. "His mother? How amazing she was?"

"No," she says, and turns around.

"They're worth it," you say. "Every bit. They all are."

Her laugh is short, more of a sigh than a chuckle. "Goodbye, Theta," she says.

You stay still, heavy, wondering. That title. And before she reaches the door, you speak.

"Why'd you come?"

She acts like she doesn't hear you, and the door closes, locking behind her.

o**O**o

It's night again, and you've forgotten that they don't want to kill you, because every one of your nerves is saying that's what they're doing. You're strapped to the table again, and if you could spare a moment of pain and think, you'd agree with the Healer: the first wave of torture doesn't hold a candle to this second session. Your eyes are open so, so wide, and you're screaming against the blackness because you can't help it. For the second time in three days, you're sure you're going to die. Your back arches and when it slaps against the marble table again, a spray of blood goes up - you taste it on your tongue as it lands. How long has it been since relief? You don't know. You don't know. Only know you're going to die.

A coal runs across your arm, and your body jerks. For all the fire of pain, you can tell when your skin is actually being burnt. Round, rolling a track first across your arm, then across your chest. Every time it hits a cut, your brain overloads, and the lightheadedness that comes before a faint soaks you in sweat. Blink rapidly to clear your vision, which only sends your eyes rolling up and the world flickering in rainbow colours that all drip with red.

You feel the firebrand bumping up over the lips of a particularly huge wound near your neck, hesitating for a second … then tumbling over, touching the exposed muscle, wedging underneath the skin of your chest.

Your scream rips through your raw throat, sandpaper on tender flesh. Someone is pushing the fire along, further under your skin, and your eyes water with the agony. _"Stop, stop, please!"_

It advances another inch.

_Anything_, anything, tell them what they want. What do they want? You hardly remember. A name (mercifully not yours) bubbles up to the front of your brain - you resist. It'll all stop if you say it, why don't you just - no, no, you can't. But your mind is slipping. Why should anything matter more than stopping, stopping them, escaping this? You regain control for a moment, and then something white-hot lances through your flesh and you latch on to the name, grasping at a way out, and for forgiveness. (Because you should have let him die back on the TARDIS, instead of dooming him and everything else to the end of all things). "Theta, Theta!" you scream. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The crime and the repentance of it all in one. Even though it isn't exactly what they're looking for, a pause is almost guaranteed, now, as they pass on the information you've thrown up.

Yes. The ongoing agony relents, and you let your head loll to the side, eyes squeezing shut as the torturers' instruments rip their way out of your flesh, as someone digs the coal out from under your skin. Tears ooze out from under your eyelids to slide, stinging, down your temples.

_Theta, Theta honey, daddy's here._

Oh, they have broken your mind. Almost. It's bleeding out into nothingness, staining what it meets along the way. And it's found what it was looking for before they snapped it. The tiny, dormant bump of light that is your son's little soul.

The connection is so much more vague than the one you had with your mother, this morning (_a thousand years ago_). But you don't care.

_Daddy's here. I've got you, love._

This'll be the first thing your baby hears when he comes out of stasis. If he ever does.

_I'm sorry. It's my fault, but I only wanted you safe._

Let the kid alone, he doesn't know what you mean when you explain.

_Daddy's here. Daddy's not going to let you go._

.

It started with lies, it ended with lies, but you want him safe. Happy. You'd tear the sky in half for that. Maybe you can bargain. Let the Time Lords use your name if they take the child with them to safety.

What are you saying?

.

Starts with lies, ends with lies.

_I'm not going to let you go._

o**O**o

They've stitched you back up. That was part of the torture itself, because, just like your mother, they didn't bother with anaesthetic, and, unlike before, you desperately needed it. But you're glad of it, now, because being healed - however crudely - is a relief.

Thank goodness your body is young. It's recovering faster than it would be if you were still in your first or third forms; you can actually breathe without your throat - so torn up with your cries - causing you too much pain. But your mother was right. Before - Earth metal splitting your skin open, it just didn't have the same effect. Now, you're still bleeding where your injuries would already be invisible, scar-less. A few of these cuts might even carry through regenerations as white, twisting lines - but what are you thinking? You don't have any regenerations left.

You're lying, splayed, on some floor, somewhere. You honestly don't know. They dumped you in here after they were finished with you, and you haven't moved. Everything hurts too much to _move._

The view you have consists of a white, blank ceiling as far as your eyes can see. What's the point of looking around, anyway? You don't even want to gauge your injuries.

You don't think. If you thought, your mind wouldn't know where to turn first. Would it worry about future torture? Mull over the past few hours (heaven forbid)? Would it go to Theta? Amy? Rory? The Healer?

River?

It hurts less to just let the voices of fear fade to white noise.

So you stare up at the ceiling, eyes empty.

.

"Sweetie?"

.

If you were ever in danger of having a heart attack, it would be now.

She's here.

Has your reasoning clogged up, in the time you've just let it lie, or does this make as little sense as you think it does?

Her face moves into sight, half-covered in curls. River Song, dead as earth, and yet very much alive, right here, in the middle of the most fortified prison of the most formidable Citadel of a planet locked in war and time.

That's like her.

"I'm going mad, aren't I?" You say, voice cracked in a thousand places.

"No!" River puts her hand on your cheek, pushing up your hair. It should hurt. But it doesn't. It just feels like bliss. "No, I'm real. Sweetie, I'm here. I've got you."

You move your arm, and it hurts like hell, but it's worth it when your fingers meet the smooth skin of her arm.

"I don't believe you," you say.

Her expression breaks, eyebrows pulling together in compassion. "It's me, it's me," she says, and leans down.

Her full, firm lips meet yours. She runs them over your mouth, across your cheek, down your neck where she kisses a jagged cut, disregarding the blood. "What did they do to you?"

"I don't want to think about it," you say. You still haven't moved your head, you can't, you couldn't stand more pain.

"We're going to get through this," she says.

You smile.

"I love you," you say. "I love you, I love you. Please, be real."

"I am." She returns your smile, a few tears shining on her cheeks.

"Have you seen Theta?" You move your hand over the soft, soft top of her head.

"No," she says. "Where is he?"

You look away, eyes focusing on the ceiling again. In the quiet, you can feel her stroking your forehead. "If it's really you," you say, "You could prove it. Say it, River."

She looks confused. "Say what?"

"You know what I mean."

Silence.

"River, what's my name?"

"Where is Theta?" she says again.

"I can't tell you," you say, and there's a lump in your throat that throbs like the coal under your skin.

"Why not? What's wrong?"

You pull her down, kiss her, force yourself to let go and then kiss her again. It's the guiltiest of pleasures, but you can't stop, you can't stop. Dizzy lack of breath, mouths meeting and again, and again -

And then you gently push her away. "I miss you."

Her body goes slack, turns to wax, then to water - colours blurring together, air swirling in where there should be solid shapes -

And you squeeze your eyes shut.

You should be rushing around, putting up barriers, concentrating on hiding the Ponds, hiding Theta. That was a mental attack, the cruelest kind, and it could happen again, any second. Someone invading, bending perception, using memory to weave a static soul. Torture's not over. It's just started.

But you can't shake it off.

Precious seconds slip by, and with them memories.

Try as you will, you can't get the feeling of her hair back.


	10. Chapter 10

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

At most, seven days to live, and you feel five of them fall like sand between your fingers. There are new agonies with every new dawn. Physical torture - until your body gives up healing and lets its surface succumb to livid, ugly shades without a patch of natural colour left - and mental. River, the Ponds, even the Healer, they all visit you, tear you apart inside. You wall up your mind, but the visions always slip through.

Your one comfort? You can't remember Theta.

.

They're digging, digging, in your mind and in your skin. Your breathing comes in fits and starts. Patches on your forehead, attached to wires, take a viscously short time to install - electric conductors stick through your skin, through bone, poking past your skull.

With every effort they make, every pulse they send, you need a fresh mountain of willpower to not let the memory float up, to shove something else out instead. Something meaningless.

_Why hasn't it changed? Dear, dear, how very disturbing._

Not what they want, of course. Something thin, cold, metal, sliding further inside your forehead. Farther, farther. Real, this time. Painfully real. They're coming back. Here th-

_Alons-y, Alonso!_

That makes you sick on its own. _He _hated you before you were even born. Like your mother.

And still not good enough, because they want Theta. They want Theta. (And they want something else, too.)

The two things they are never going to get.

.

Even when, at the end of days, days, your mind is turned over, wrung out, details scraped from the corners - even when it turns to a grey blur and thoughts wander without registering - even then, they _don't find him. _You can't find him, they can't, no one in the universe could, right now.

And when they yank the wires out and you're finally alone again, you're proud.

.

Life has become a constant struggle to keep two things safe: your baby and your name.

What does it matter what they do to your body?

o**O**o

The door swings open.

You look up from where you were bent over your fingers, back to the wall of your usual white cell. For all the blood the torturers have drawn from you, your missing fingernails present the most morbid fascination, and you've taken to staring at them through the long hours of nothing.

_Amy_ comes in. She moves cautiously, staring down at the place you're curled against the wall. You look at her from under a tangled twist of your bloody-damp hair, hating, hating, hating.

"Doctor?" There are a few tears hanging onto the edge of her eye. Every detail is vivid in your mind as you search for clues, clues that you can deny. Inconsistencies, glitches in the details. But they've done a good job, this time, even better than even the last simulation (which you actually let yourself believe was real for a full two minutes before you had to let it go, and slap yourself back into reality). You can see human make-up outlining Amy's eyelashes as she steps toward you.

_Damn you for being so good at this. Whoever's here. Damn you._

"Doctor?" she repeats, touching your hunched shoulder in a real-enough gesture of compassion.

You curl in tighter, breathing in, filling your body with air. "Leave me alone," you try to say, but your voice is too quiet, and she doesn't hear.

"We've come to take you away," she says. "Doctor, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

Someone else comes in. Usually you can tell who it is, in these dreams, before you see their faces, but this time, you can't tell it's Rory until he speaks. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know," Amy says. "He won't talk to me." Her eyes move over your body. "What's happened to him?"

"Don't answer," you say to Rory. Even in a simulation, you don't want them figuring out what they've been doing.

"Doctor! You're with us," Amy says.

She takes you in her arms, but you keep yourself stiff. "Leave me, leave me alone, please don't … touch me."

"Doctor. What have they done to you?" Amy repeats, and Rory feels your forehead. For the first time you look at his hands, and see that in one arm he's carrying a small, grey-wrapped shape. Oh, no.

"He's burning up," Rory says.

You lean forward, burying your face in Amy's hair - unable to help yourself. You need some kind of comfort, even if it's only an illusion. And you begin laughing.

"Doctor!"

"Pond!"

"What is going on?"

The hysterical laughter turns into a choked struggle for breath.

"Doctor! Get a grip!" Amy shakes you.

"She would say that," you say, pushing her arms away.

"Come here," she says, voice worried.

"Stop," you say.

Amy presses something against your chest. The bundle that Rory was holding before. No. No. No. No.

"Don't do this," you cry. "Just kill me!"

"Doctor." Amy runs a finger over your cheek, blinking back tears. "Please, what's wrong? _What's wrong_?"

You give a dry, tearless sob that sears your lungs, and wrap your arms around the shape that Amy is still holding to you. A tiny arm moves against your frayed robe, five fragile fingers poke through a hole - skin meets skin, the contact pinching the surface of your body into goosebumps.

The baby turns his eyes up to yours.

He's real. He's real. You kept Theta, you would know if they had stolen him from your mind.

There is no way any Time Lord could have done this. Could have made this.

"Theta. Amy. Rory." You reach out and touch them. They're real. They're real.

"Doctor." Amy takes your hand. "What did they do to you?"

"You're real," you say, out loud this time. "How did you get here? Tell me they haven't got you, too."

"No, no, we've come to rescue you!" Amy's on the verge of tears.

You pull her forward and don't let her go. She smells like home. Earth. Amelia. How are you here?

She puts her arms around you again. You rock in her embrace ever-so-slightly, breathing hard. Safe for the first time in a week.

Finally, you pull away, eyes searching her face again.

"But how did you break in?"

"That isn't important," Amy says. "What matters is that you haven't been honest with us."

You laugh in disbelief. "_What_? How is that -"

"Doctor." Amy squeezes your hand. "Listen. I need to know why you're here."

"To heal Theta," you say, shaking your head distractedly. "Just get me out."

"We can't," Rory speaks up. "There's a nasty looking guard-type that goes past every fifteen minutes. We have to wait -" he checks his watch - "Six more."

Six minutes. _Way_ too much time to spend here.

You put your head back against the wall, gaze fixed on the glorious Ponds, arms firm around the baby. Your baby. The one you're scared to look at, in case he's not real.

But he is.

Amy looks close to tears. She leans in, intense. "Please, tell me why the Time Lords have you locked up. We heard something about a name._ Doctor_."

Because she was the one that you told your secrets to. Well, except all of them. And Amy Pond can't go without knowing you trust her like she trusts you.

Not even for a fistful of seconds.

"Okay. Okay." You sigh, feeling all the air deflate from your chest. "We're safe for six minutes?"

"Should be," Rory says.

"How do I …" You look from one to the other, then decide on the truth, because good boys don't lie to their parents. (Well. Not often.)

"Look … d'you think I'm a nice person?" you say. "Honestly?" when they nod. You laugh a bit, close your eyes - shut hard against the light that you're letting in. You don't know if you're starting in the right place, or even saying the right thing, but talking feels absolutely glorious, so you plough on. "It's not … I … the truth is, I want them all dead. The Daleks, the Cybermen, the Silence. Any monster that's touched our lives."

You stop. To properly explain, you should go on, tell them about all the filth that goes past righteous anger and into sadism, pride, hatred. But you don't. How could you? How could you say any of that out loud? So instead you swallow and say, "Right," then keep going. "So what do you think would happen if the Time Lords released my name?"

They still look blank.

"Boom," you say. "My name, growing for a thousand years, that angry, that much time energy? Look, it's not like a name. It's more - it's like - an identity. The Time Lords, a long time ago, poured themselves into the vortex. Time poured right back, putting power behind their personalities. Power they stored in their names. It was dangerous, but it became a part of us, like regeneration. Another thing Time gave us. So - see - the older I get, the more it grows. Do you understand?"

They shake their heads. "Look," you say, "It would be a weapon. Time Lord names aren't normally allowed to mature. I was an idiot when I was younger, and by the time I was old enough to see that my name's not a blessing, it was to dangerous to use it and release it and get rid of it. That much energy - it would do things to time - it has enough power to - to make me into a - to put me in control of - and that's not - that's not what the universe needs."

You end it, stuttering and hoping they understand.

"So, the Time Lords could use this … name … to hurt the Daleks?" Rory says.

"And everything else they're fighting," you say. "Yes. But mostly the Daleks. They don't mind destroying time, which is what the Name would do, if it all came out. That's what they want to do, tear it all apart. And … ascend, or something. They think they can live without bodies. The only beings in the - but there wouldn't be a universe."

"Thanks," Amy says. Leans back. You give her a little smile, because it feels so free, to let that secret, black like coal-dirt, go.

Amy returns the smile.

And then suddenly, inexplicably …

It's all turning to wax again.

The ginger torturer steps through, as, with a ripple, everyone vanishes. Instinct presses you against the wall, hunches your shoulders, draws up your knees to protect your raw fingers.

"It's morning," he announces.

You look around the plain white room, dazed. You're alone. No sign of the Ponds, or Theta.

So it was a hallucination.

How did they get Theta so exactly right?

"What's going on?" you say.

"Well," he says, moving from one foot to the other, "I'm sorry. That was - that was my work."

You know what he means.

"But - thank you." He continues. "You told me about it, back there. So - so, now I know what I'm doing. What the Time Lords are doing."

You gape. That little plea, from you, about not knowing what he was doing, the night he ruined your hands - that actually shook him enough to make him shake you right back, shake you like an apple tree, dropping ripe secrets to bruise on the grass?

"What else do you want?" You say.

"I wanted to tell you that there's no need to hurt you anymore," he replies. "We've found out who Theta is."

"No, you haven't." You deny it, electricity live in your stomach. Rub your hands together - a habit that has formed out of the pain from your fingers.

"We found it all," he says. "The humans, the child. The Healer was keeping them."

You run your right index finger over the smarting red depression on the top of your left ring finger, feeling some kind of jackknife ripping, ragged, through your organs.

"I want you to know you're safe now," he says, kneeling down to your level (an action you despise). "We don't need to torture you anymore. We didn't exactly need to before, but the council wanted to know why you were back on Gallifrey. They know, now, so you can rest easy."

"Get out," you say.

"Sorry sir, of course, sir," he says, and backs through the door. Closes it behind him.

You inspect your fingers in the silence. Straightening, flattening, bending.

Wondering quietly when the insanity will kick in. Wondering if it already has.

* * *

I know it's un-classy of me to ask for reviews, but what can I say? I'm a starving artist and I eat my reader's opinions. So I kindly entreat you to provide me some noms.


	11. Chapter 11

Kudos to madis hartte for the headcanons about Gallifrey, especially in this chapter.

* * *

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

Now they've got him, you can let your mind flood. You don't even have to concentrate on hiding the streak of blinding power, the name, for a while. You're focused so hard on Theta, on letting yourself remember him, that anyone trying to attack your mind would simply find confused bursts of love and devastation making a thick wall around the subconscious.

But no one _is_ attacking you anymore.

You miss_ her_, too, the loved one that no one thinks of. Where is your TARDIS? What have they done with her? Do they even know she's here? Maybe not.

Yeah, and maybe they'll let Theta be.

That's sarcasm, but your breath catches and you clutch at the thought. Why _would_ they take him out of stasis? You don't answer yourself, repressing the knowledge of their cruelty, logic-ing Theta to life.

Not like you ever thought he was dead.

You'd know. Even if you can't touch his mind because of your weakened state, you believe you can still tell he's alive.

Right?

Yes.

And why would they kill him?

.

Something like hope lifts the corner of your mouth.

.

Sit there for a few more minutes - not that time means much in this never-changing insane asylum - then realize that there's something small, lying in a corner of your cell, black on the whiteness.

Slowly, you inch over to the corner. Thankfully, it isn't far away, and your injuries aren't acting up too very badly - you make it there with only a small amount of pain.

And find a strip of cloth - dark red, now you see it up closer.

Well, it will match the stains on your shirt and pants, as well as the natural colour of your suspenders.

Red it is.

And so you tie your bowtie back around your neck, and it feels good to have it. Something everyone used to laugh at. But that's just the thing - you could use some laughing, laughing like that.

o**O**o

It's a beautiful day, ten times better because you haven't seen the outside world in a week. The sky is the perfect tone of vivid orange - almost neon. The suns set fire to it, fire that rushes down the mountains, veins of sliver flickering in the waving crimson grass.

You stand in front of a window, circular and rimmed with black iron, a window so huge that you almost forget your troubles standing in front of it. It makes you feel so small. Like you don't matter. In which case, you won't be able to hurt anything.

_You won't be hurting anything anyway._

Through the next room is the Gallifreyan council chamber, which is assembling again, debating among themselves, preparing something or other.

You don't really know.

Nor, for the first time in six days, do you care.

You press your cheek to the glass. It's somewhere between warm and cool, like water from a tap, and if you closed your eyes you might imagine yourself bathing some of your cuts in that water. But you can't shut your eyes. The mountains, so sharp, rearing up like waves, so much higher than the Everest the humans look to - you have to keep staring.

"It's so beautiful," you say, hearing a step behind you. A robe slithers on the stone floor near your shoulder, but you keep staring out.

"Doctor."

It's a cracked, female voice, and you turn to see a figure, bent with age but still quite tall, standing there, a folded piece of red cloth in her hands. Her hair and eyes are wild, and your first instinct is to back away. But you stay, wait for her to speak.

"Come to get you dressed," she says.

"What?"

She lets the cloth she is holding unfold, falling and resolving into the shape of a Gallifreyan ceremonial robe.

"They say you should wear this before the council," she says. "Before they tear you apart."

The last bit is said so matter-of-factly that you shiver, but you let it be. Look the robe up and down. Yes - now that you think of it, it was probably considered a bit rude to come into the council with Earth clothes on. Not that you could help it.

"What, no hat?" You say. "I love a good hat."

"Come on, get that silly thing off," she says, and you tug your bowtie off a little regretfully. Then she gestures for you to continue, so you slowly peel your shirt off, gritting your teeth when the dried blood tugs at your chest.

"Ah, they could have done so much more," the woman says, eyeing your injuries. "Look, I can still see skin they didn't bruise. We could still take you in, get you fixed up a bit. So many things I can think of."

Your flesh prickles in the bare cold.

"Going to ssskin you."

You take a deep breath, holding your hands tight in fists, stiff and straight. Staring ahead.

"You know, I _would_," she says, and runs a fingernail sharp down your arm.

And you feel the whole bloody process - _skin peeling away, alive until the last, every second - _in a flash, real as the hours of torture you've already gone through.

With the shock of a man who has just had a bucket of chill water drench his hair, eyes open wide, you fold your arms around yourself. Try to rub away the _horror. _Unsuccessfully.

"Your mind is so open!" She says, laughing and putting her paper fingers on the nape of your neck - which doesn't help the fright. "So easy to get sensation down your throat."

"Stop, stop, please," you say, only half-caring about how lost and helpless you sound.

"You only had to ask," she says, and holds out the ceremonial robe. "Here."

You reach for it, but she snatches it away and pulls it over your head. Suffocating for a second, and then it falls over you, hem to the floor, resting so light on your shoulders that it doesn't hurt too very badly.

"Shame," she says, "This regeneration is gorgeous."

You wrap your arms around yourself again.

"Almost as lovely as your first one was, when he was young," she says, head tilted, finger on cheek.

Your head whips round to look at her. The way she said that - oh, sweet Rassilon, it - it isn't.

"Hi," she says.

"What have they done to you?" You say, reaching for her, catching her head (so ugly where it was once so, so lovely) in your hands, gentle.

"Sent her to fight. She went to fight and she never came back."

A moan rubs in your throat. "Please say you're in there somewhere."

"Your wife is gone," she smiles, teeth crooked. Eyes dim. Hair grey. Not the girl with gold on her head and sky in her eyes anymore.

"I thought they killed you years ago," you say, voice whispering, scraping, gravel on tears.

"They killed her more than twice," she says. "They know how to bring people back and back and back and back for this war. Not before. But during the war. They don't make people alive again for love, just for killing. Lovely boy, don't you know, dying drives the mind where it shouldn't go. You think you know regeneration? You do not know death, what death is."

"No. I know you're in there." And summoning a power of will you didn't know you had, you touch her mind, tear down her defences, flood in.

She is real - not some hallucination - that's for sure. No one could fake this insanity. It's horrible to feel - you shake it off, but keep searching. And it keeps clogging you down.

You've been in here too long, you have to leave.

You have to go.

Where is the girl with flowers in her hair, the flowers that smell like time?

You drop your hands.

"She's gone," you say, voice hardening.

"She is, for certain," she replies, and kisses you.

You pull away, disgusted, shaking your head. "She's gone. You're not her. No wonder I didn't recognize you."

"All the good is gone," she says, "And all the bad is mixed up with all the rest of the bad in the universe." Considers you for a second. "Bone," she says. "You'd look good all bones. I hope they kill you slowly."

o**O**o

You stand behind the doors into the council hall. They're closed, and you're in shadow, hot, stifling bodies pressing around you. They think such a beaten-down man needs this many soldiers to keep him from running?

But they're not worried you'll _run._

Oscar Wilde. A scrap of human poetry - as if this is the time for poetry - darts through your head.

_They watch him when he tries to weep, / and when he tries to pray, / they watch him lest himself should rob / the prison of its prey._

_._

Any hope you felt earlier is gone - and that was probably the effect they were trying to give, sending her in to you. Seeing her - you got over your wife's death long ago. Eight hundred years ago. And she has been gone for that long - there is nothing left of her inside that crazy, ranting body.

So why does it hurt so badly?

No.

You cover your face.

That was before.

You are past her.

You are mourning River.

You are protecting Theta.

You are not in that life anymore.

.

The sound of Amy screaming in pain certainly gives that away.

.

She's saying something snarky to Rassilon now, the silly girl. Are they making you listen to this on purpose? Glorious Pond, who you haven't seen for days of nightmares - she'd be sunshine, but they make her another bad dream? She's in there, she's in there right now.

The doors open, and you hear the end of Rassilon's reply to her.

"You think your Doctor will be able to fight us?"

The Lord President laughs.

"Bring him out here."

.

The guards move forward as one, and you stumble along with them, into the the council hall. The sunslight smacks your eyes, shutting them for a second, then giving you only sharp, cruel, white-on-white images. You blink.

The little wetness still in your mouth goes down to stick in your throat - Amy's staring at you, the pink drained from her cheeks. You realize with a shock that tears are dripping off her chin.

You haven't, of course, seen a mirror since your torture, but from a little inspection your hands did, earlier, you figure you might be close to unrecognizable. You could only run your hands over your skin intermittently, jerking back when they hit a spot that hurt even more than the rest. But the fact that you couldn't even touch yourself without massive pain tells you a lot.

You wish the prickly shadow of colour on your chin and neck was long enough to cover the bruises, the raw skin, that you could hide your face. But they want her to see.

See you completely defeated. Mangled. Crushed.

And little Amelia Pond is looking at you. At her madman, her madman with a box - who has no box now, who is battered and whose fairytale has ended. She's looking at the dirt and the sweat and the places you've torn the scabs on your face all over, trying to wipe your running nose, the fresh and the crusted disgusting stuff from it covering your cheeks and gumming your mouth. Where you scraped your fingers over the delicate healing skin on your face far too hard, in your attempt to wipe away the tears … every degradation of dirt that can cover a person soaks some stain on your robe. Like the disgusting acid place where they starved you sick and all your food came up -

Oh, no. You put your hand up and, forcing your way through the sudden screaming of your skin, touch the place on your chest just above the robe's neckline. Move your fingers up, and the brutal bursts of fire that come with your heartsbeats fade slightly.

Right. So the burns end there. So she won't see them, really. A little gift.

.

"Doctor," Amy mouths.

You'd tell her you're sorry, but you're too ashamed to speak.

"Doctor!" she screams.

_Leave me alone._

You look for refuge - you have - you need - someone who won't - you find Rory with your eyes. He understands. He won't be so devastated by the way you look. He's a nurse, he knows what a ruined body looks like.

His jaw is clenched, but his features are blank. He's got his arm around Amy, who is now fighting him - fighting everyone. Keep her there, Rory.

But she breaks free. Every one of your muscles tense - "No, Amy!" you scream.

She reaches your guards, and for a second, there's a little resistance, as she bumps up against the soldiers. You watch helplessly, breath heaving in your chest.

Heaven knows you'd do anything to stop their hurting her, but cold hard truth is that you're one hundred percent helpless. "Amy!" you gasp again.

But what do they care? She pushes through because they let her. She's there, she's close, she's only a foot or two away from you. She puts a hand near your face and then draws back. "Does it hurt?" She says. "No," you lie, grabbing her hand and then, realizing you're probably crushing her bones to pieces, loosening up, putting her palm to your cheek where she was about to place it.

"Oh, Doctor," she says, devastation written in the lines between her eyebrows.

She leans in close to you, laying her head on your shoulder, and even though it the contact hurts worse than you can bear, you take this as a signal that closeness, even given the state you're in, isn't something disgusting for her. Your arms turn to white-hot torture as you wrap them around her, but you only wince and hang on tight, shielding her from everything. Even though you might as well be holding a sheet of paper between her and the fire, for all the good you're doing. "Amy, Amy," you whisper. She wraps her hands around you, and you can feel how fragile her body is. Human beings. Made of china.

"We go down fighting," you say.

"What does it matter?"

You flounder. "Because it means they haven't beaten us," you whisper.

"But they have," she says. And you start to tell her she doesn't mean it. But then you look at her eyes.

"Come here," you say, pressing her closer, crushing her against you with all the strength you have left (which isn't much). Like she's your child, your charge, because this is your fault and you feel a pressing urge to make it better. To help her forget for a second. "When did the monsters ever scare Amelia Pond?" And you put a hand on her head, keeping her close, so she can't see any of the sharp shapes around.

She sniffs.

"Don't you cry," you say. "Brave heart, Amy."

"What's there to be brave about?" she says.

"But that's never been the point of bravery," you say. "Bravery's about facing the dark like there's still something to give you steel. Think you can do that? No, I know you can. But here. Cry now and get it out."

There are a few tears, but she's so empty that after only a few seconds, she's silent again.

"You look terrible," she says, voice monotone.

"I know," you say.

Her fingers curl slowly over a rip in your shirt where fresh blood is still steadily staining the fabric. "What did they do to you?"

"Whatever it was, I swear it isn't happening to you. I won't let them touch you."

"How can you say that?" Her voice continues on one note.

"I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve," you say, lifting her chin.

"You're lying," she says, and you kiss her forehead slowly instead of denying it.

She leans away from you, but you keep hard hold of her hand. "_Don't let me go_," you say.

"I won't," she says.

You can be brave for her. Fish fingers and custard.

And then a hand closes around your shoulder, and you're yanked away from her. Pushed forward, through the crowd, into the centre of the marble floor. All's confusion for a second, then the same chain as before bites around your wrist, and you flinch, because your bones haven't healed and the manacle's weight shoves all their shattered bits into odd positions. You grab the chain and lift it with your other hand so it's not dragging on the injury.

The room falls quiet. Looking around, you see the council settling into their places, then turning still as stone.

"Before we proceed to Trenzalore, do you have any last statements for the court?" A Time Lady asks, voice ringing in the still hall.

"The child," you whisper.

"You will have to speak up," she says.

"The child," you say, voice scratching like sandpaper. "Where's Theta? Where's my son?"

There is a movement somewhere to the left - a Time Lady has got to her feet.

"Theta Tau is dead. He was taken out of stasis the evening past and died five hours later."

She sits back down, expression unchanging.

It hits you like a blow to your throat, and you're choking up blood and tears before you can even wrap your mind around the words. Collect your breath. "If you're lying to me, I -" But you break down again, because you can see on every face that it's true. Give a hollow, hopeless curse, and fit your open eyes into the heels of your hands. And start to sob.

Your whole body shakes in great wracking waves. Like it hasn't, ever. Not this body. The torture didn't do this to you. You didn't feel the tears burning the inside of your throat, and reaching deep to scar your stomach, no matter how much your _skin_ withered and blackened in their fire.

"Pull yourself together, Doctor," some authoritative voice snaps. "You should be ashamed."

The tears do stop. Quick. Within a minute you're smearing them away, gulping down air.

Then you wrap your arms around yourself, closing your eyes and trying to hold on to what you've still got. Rory, Amy - and who else? Everyone else is_ dead_.

Unexpectedly, a whiplash of hate splashes across the back of your eyelids, lighting them red and green and bitter gold. Why are they dead?

You can feel it rising inside you.

"You'll pay for this," you say, eyes squeezed shut, loud enough for the entire council to hear.

"You cannot do anything," the first voice replies. "You are powerless."

Your arms slowly loosen, and your eyes open as a scream climbs up the inside of your chest. Your muscles, tense with grief a moment ago, are filling with an iron of another alloy.

Your back straightens, jaw working. The tension has reached your throat. It's at your mouth. "_I _am powerless," you say. "_I _am powerless." Your words are harsh, full to the brim with rage. "Yeah, that's me, the one who's about to pull the universe apart with a word, that's me, utterly powerless. Who are you kidding." You half-turn, measuring the council up with your eyes. "You think what your torturers have done to me is bad. Oh, I'll put you through hell before the end. You'll all feel it."

Two guards come up, and you raise a hand. "Don't - touch me," you snap.

They don't.

You toss the hair out of your eyes, sending a little spray of red through the air, and address the council again. "I'd tell you all to run but I think you're past any kind of intelligence. Oh, and you can't go anywhere, that's right, I forgot, there's a time lock around you. 'Course, you know that. Did you know that someone put it on so he could burn your planet?"

A moment's shock, and then Rassilon speaks up. "You overestimate your ability to weave stories, Doctor," he says.

"Weaving stories, right. The Moment, just a big de-mat gun - but one pull on that trigger and the planet exploded. Yeah, and you all screamed. Rassilon, I could hear you, great mind like yours. And you were _afraid."_ You stand, trembling. "Now, you _know_ what I'm capable of and you _know_ that you've just hurt me worse than you were even trying to. Enjoy yourself. The next few hours should be fun for everyone."

"We hope you enjoy it as much as we will," Rassilon says.

You nod, face still hard as rock. "Don't worry."

"It is time," Rassilon says.

The guards from before come up and unchain you, pulling the manacle off viscously so it dislocates more of your bones.

Suddenly, the pain needles you. Nibbles at your brain. Just makes you want to give it to someone else. Inflict it.

One of the guards jostles you roughly from behind, and then he's alongside you - and with the new pain and the new hate comes a sudden echo tearing through your ears. Nothing but a scream.

A scream made of agony.

Pure, molten agony.

You're disorientated, confused - and it's not till you see another Time Lord, striding in front of you, and hear another echo, that you realize what it is. (This time, you can hear words. _"No, please, can't you let me live? I'm still young - first regeneration - please - please, just rescue me, just me, I -")_

No. No. This is what you were scared of. What almost chased you off going to Gallifrey in the first place. Remembering. You shouldn't have dug up that memory of Rassilon's dying moments. Because, welling up like a flood, a Flood that infects, comes the chorus of pain that pressed against your mind the moment before your planet turned to dust, years ago and years ahead.

It's the face of a beautiful Time Lady, next, and you can't pay attention to where they're dragging you because all you can see are the tears, the names, and the screaming mouths of the people around you.

It's around the twentieth nightmare that you begin to ask the soldiers to kill you. Of course, they never would - first, they're not that merciful, and second, they need your name. But you can't help pleading all the same. And it all turns to desperate hate when they won't lop your head off and spare you the remembrance.

You're somewhere deep underground when you stop, and by then you're delirious, shaking and muttering who knows what. _Oh, great, look, a jailer. Want to know how you died, jailer? You gave this little squeal when the fire came. That was all. But it hurt. That moment when your soul left your body drove you insane. Oh, I can feel it. No wonder you went crazy. I think I'm going crazy, too. Out of our minds, the both of us. Well, it's a big club, you know. We could get t-shirts._

_Theta, daddy's gone._

.

They sit you in a cell, maybe in a TARDIS, maybe not, leave you. Thank goodness, thank goodness you'll all be dead soon. Planetfall will be so pretty with all the screams like singing. They've already got enough cries from you, though, you'll laugh instead, in the ash streaking down like rain. Here it comes, Trenzalore. Stupid Silence, thinking they could stop you, you toppled them like a child poking a peg doll over with a finger. You did that, or was it River?

When?

And they're going to fall.

(But was it you, or golden-hair-sad-sad-eyes laughing-flirting gone-dead-gone River Song?)

She isn't here, she's with your son.

Agh.

Bend over, arms wrapped around your middle, you'd throw up if there was anything left in your body besides empty black holes. If there is some kind of afterlife, you've a feeling you won't make it to the place Theta and River are - you've failed them and the whole of creation, and, actually, you don't care anymore. Oh, you care about_ them_, of course, and that's what makes you _want, want_ to put a knife in the belly of the universe. Revenge, best served cold as supernovas.

Cold, cool.

Bowties of blood traced out on the floor.

Haha! It's all so funny, an iron-tasting funny. You blink too much, it's coming back to you. Bowties and fezzes and stetsons.

But it never really left, this blindness, this terror, this sin. You could hide under hats, but it's coming back to sink its teeth into your neck and freeze your joy in the past.

Everything is your fault. The word "everything" is thrown around too lightly in the world, think about it. Everything, every broken thing in all of time and space, was, is, will be snapped by you. You've destroyed so many people that mangling all of reality is just finishing the job. And you can't take it anymore! It's not something anyone _could_ take. The only option is to meet what you're about to do with open arms, show it how to inflict pain, and then point it towards the Time Lords and watch it do its work with a bowl of popcorn. _Make them scream._

o**O**o

If you cared, you'd wonder why they chose this place for executions. Maybe it's dramatic effect. Ruined stone with blood-red glass spiking up alongside blades of glass - a half-paved courtyard, surrounded by low, jumbled walls.

Most likely, it saves them the trouble of carrying the bodies away.

The grass is so red.

Maybe it's blood.

Maybe it's health from the morbid feast of a thousand Time Lords turned dirt.

It's a nice place to go, grass. Lucky to feed it, they were, the ones who were snapped here.

But you were snapped before, and they're just finishing off your body, catching the run-off from your soul as it spills.

Only they won't.

.

You look up, suddenly, to see if the world has changed. No. The Time Lords are still screaming their deaths away in your ears, like they will be if you hold out. And they will be if you don't.

But it's changed because you've realized that you have to fight.

.

Good thing that's when they push you down on a rough piece of cobblestone, because you want to cry from sheer exhaustion. What, you? Fight? Now? Why? Because you have to? What kind of rubbish answer is that?

.

"Can you just leave me alone?" You mumble.

No one listens.

.

You put your face in your hands, careful not to rub the raw, sticky skin, and press your fingers into your eyes until a city of lights sparkles in front of you, all gold and red.

"Get over with it," you say.

.

Rassilon's deep voice replies. "It doesn't have to go so slowly, Doctor," he says.

You open your eyes, look around at the Time Lords surrounding you, putting pieces together instead of deliriously floating from one face to another in death agonies like snowflakes (so many, each so unique). The whole council is here, standing around, robes flapping in the wind, the whole council here to see Silence fall. If you were an ordinary criminal, it would just be you and the executioner (you know from personal experience. Not that you ever came near Trenzalore, but a sentence somewhere was pending. Long story, and the law, once looked up, had a nice little loophole that someone had scribbled in, along with an apology and "you know, it's not a crime on Earth - you really should update these things").

.

A Time Lord comes up and jerks your hands behind you with a piece of rope.

"The formal question," someone says. You can tell they're reading from something by the flat tone of their voice. Dip your head, close your eyes, sink back into your mind. Not deep enough to block out the reader's words. "What is the Doctor's true name?"

You blink. But what about -

"Doctor who?" Someone says, beside you, and you close your eyes once more. You can hear the smile in their words. Judging by the voice, it's your torturer, and you hate him worse than you hated him before - he had to add that_? Extractor: job description: act friendly, get information from prisoners, and make snide jokes that unintentionally but conveniently make them feel like they're doomed._

But _did_ you hate him before?

No, you didn't. And you don't.

Even though that comment betrays the insubstantial respect he played at having for you.

You crack your eyelids open and look at him, neck stiff and slow to move.

He cried when he found out he was going to die. Innocent, child-tears.

You feel them filming your own eyes.

You don't hate him.

.

"Answer?" the reader says.

You shake your head.

A group of guards moves forward, into your field of vision. One soldier takes Rory by the upper arms and forces him along until he's right in front of you. "Answer?"

.

So this is where it really ends. You stare at him, not blinking. He doesn't look scared, he probably believes you'll save him - but no. He's too intelligent for that.

If you could just explain -

"I'm sorry," you say. "I'm -"

.

It turns into a cry, as they stick the knife in his stomach. You look down, mouth half open, at where he's fallen, so close that the blood shines your shoes. And have nothing to say. Nothing to do, as he lies there, curled in on himself.

"Amy," he whispers.

.

Your eyes are wide. Look anywhere but him.

You tilt your foot just slightly and watch the red drip off your leather boot. A thousand bruised years and you still don't know how to deal with pain. Twenty decades running from death, leading to a place where suicide looks like paradise.

That's your life.

.

And then it's Amy in front of you, the girl who waited just to die. Should have left her on Appalapachia.

You refuse to look at her and end up memorizing the colour of her iris (beautiful olive green).

Oh, my darling, make it go away.

Run.

Can't.

.

"Doctor," she says, drawing back fearfully, making herself small.

"Answer?" The reader talks over her.

You shake your head.

She's on the ground beside Rory, same knife spraying the floor with little rubies made of life. She moves her hand into his. His fingers curl ever so slightly over her palm.

.

Oh, you selfish, selfish man, rotten like a hollowed out apple. You could have died, on the beach, when you were supposed to. But you ran away. A chance at escape jumped in front your heat-pressed brain, and before you realized what you were doing, you were on the floor of the Tessilecta, laughing at death as you stared at the ceiling. Laughing at death. Death, that you should have embraced more fondly than River. Because you were meant to die and you knew - you knew this was coming! How could you, how could you be so arrogant, to think you could escape, so selfish, to choose a handful of borrowed years over the preservation of every grain of reality.

Over these beautiful people, totally ruined.

(You thought you could win.)

But maybe you have won.

And if you have, and the Time Lords let you go, you'll walk over and die with the Ponds. That's where you belong. In the dust with the human beings.

You can't tell if you're insulting yourself or wishing on a star.

.

"Is that all?" You say.

The wind's whistles don't give a good enough answer.

"I - have - nothing - left - to - lose," you say, honesty licking the jar of despair clean.

"That isn't quite true."

You don't bother looking for the speaker.

"What is it, then?" You say. "Get it over. Die and let die."

There's a little silence, and you wonder what the fastest way to kill yourself is.

One of the Ponds gives a moan.

Who are you, anyway? Is it even fair that a teenage rebel, a grandfather looking for adventure, a lost child, would have to fall, would have to become this? Is the price of seeing the stars always your soul?

.

A baby starts to cry.

Your eyes snap open, and even with the stiffness, the crusted wounds, the melted and missing skin, you stumble to your feet. "Theta!" You scream.

They bring him close, too close, stepping over the Ponds and showing you his face. His living, breathing body.

You lose something, and it takes you a second to realize what. It's the ability to touch other minds - it just falls away. The Time Lords around you have closed themselves off perfectly.

There is no way any of you could access one another's consciousness. Theta is real. For certain this time.

You try to hold out your tied hands on instinct, and end up just jerking your body forward in a sick lurch towards the only thing that matters.

The knife comes out again, and it's a haze, synapses shutting down, logic cracking and giving way under the weight of this dropped piano. You hear all the keys banging together as it falls, your mind splitting and splintering like violin strings; cut and whipping back.

"Answer?" The reader says.

One string still holds, and you scream as the pressure twists it another 360 degrees - another - another - so tight, set to spring free. Your last lifeline of defiance, of sense.

There's a silver flash where the knife was still a moment ago.

And you jump into Time. Calling it. Fear resounding like a cut cord.

You sing to time and it sings back.

Answer.

It's long, complex, harsh, mad with hate, and your self-detestation swamps everything as the Gallifreyan rolls off your tongue. You feel your bonds snapping, the raw power of time spilling out, stopping hearts.

The man holding Theta falls to the ground.

Cold sweat sticks to you like clammy plastic wrap. It's still coming, the name, you can't stop it.

You hear someone give a gasp at your feet.

No. Changing time. It's changing time. Some base instinct tells you you're messing with the streams and rivers and cataracts that shouldn't be touched, the fixed points and the not-so-fixed-points and the people you love and the people you hate.

It's guiding your tongue, time is, and you can feel its pain fly past. Don't do this to us. Here're the weapons. Don't kill us. Here's a nice big sword that you can't help but swing down on our skull.

And you sink into that pain, knowing what it will bring.

First it brings power, even more than you just had - it terrifies you - and then you fall into the place, the place where, right now, time is filling the empty spots inside you. The bit you can only reach by death and the the burnt burning pathways of "hello, my name is."

And you begin to regenerate.


	12. Chapter 12

Oh my gosh, I forgot to update on Saturday. You can shoot me.

* * *

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

It doesn't last.

It does stop up your voice. That all-consuming bit of time that you always ran from (Ten most of all) - it swamps everything else. Everything is open behind it. But for one silly second, a count of one, a tap on a drum, regeneration swallows it all.

And you stop.

It's like riding a wave. You know the ocean is ready to crush you, yet you feel like you have a measure of control.

You ride it out into sight, and find that you're lying on the floor, cheek in a pool of sticky blood, gaze fixed on Amy's eye.

She blinks.

You start back.

It feels like everything in the universe starts back, too, everything. Like the mountains copy your movement. This, this is too much power.

"Doctor?" She says.

You pull yourself to your feet (the sky raising itself) and offer her your hand - she gets up, shirt drenched in blood, but without a trace of pain on her face.

"Rory!" You say, voice far, far too loud.

Because everything else is muffled. Every power. Every heart you hate is beating at half its normal rate. Silence has fallen.

And somewhere out there, the Order of the Silence have all hit the ground.

Rory stands up, eyes clear of hurt.

You kneel beside a little wrapped form.

"He's gone," you say, voice blank. Pick the body up. Press it close. More red on the red on the red on the red on the red on the -

"Why can't you bring him back, like you did to us?" Rory says, voice oddly muffled. He's rubbing his arms like he's trying to shake off the feeling of death.

_You weren't dead. He is. Healing is easy. Souls are not._

You stay quiet.

There's someone hunched at your feet - the redheaded Extractor.

You don't feel anything emotionally. No hate. And no compassion; he isn't dead. That's what you just stopped. But in the few seconds you were letting yourself out, he was drained to the last of his energy. Which has all gone to you.

What you do feel is a physical push, toward him. He isn't a fixed point. So kill.

It's like resisting the urge to scratch an itch.

And with the focus on staying away from that, you feel all the other itches around that you'd love to blot out. This place is a field full of flowers to pick.

Oh, why not? They'll die anyway, when your past comes around with a gun that erases planets.

No, no, you couldn't. You know you pity them intensely, somewhere in your heart, a place that is being blocked by this raw power.

You take a deep breath.

"Come along, Ponds."

But it isn't funny, it isn't happy, it's an order from the Master of the Universe.

Little family heading home from a long day. All dead - one inside, two in the universe named "what should be". One in the arms of his father, who is crying tears of Time.

It's quiet as deafness.

There's a TARDIS, the one they took you to Trenzalore in. You don't even have to touch a control - it lands you noiselessly beside your old one, back in the city.

She's repaired herself, lying in a heap of ashes, sparkling clean. You consider just leaving for a moment - it's another destructive, nagging urge - then decide _you could never _and go to her.

Take off.

What's a time lock when Time's on your side?

But even Time has trouble. And when you're done, you feel your connection slipping like a landslide, pebbles scraping on pebbles, away, away.

And when it's gone, and you're left floating in the middle of space, normal, safe space, you're empty.

Amy takes a step towards you. "Doctor? Doctor, are you all right?"

That's _funny. _You laugh, so hard tears wet the creases around your eyes.

"Doctor?"

Lean against the wall of the TARDIS, slide down, curl in and over the baby. Wretched.

The emptiness spills from your chest. You're drowning inside. That's what drowning is, water in the lungs. Well, you have acid in your lungs and you're coughing it up, salty, poison in your stomach.

You've never cried like this. Not since the Time War. Not since the Time War_. The war. _The blood in your wrists, you can feel it, too hot. Your muscles cramp, your face coats itself in tears. No one bends down to comfort you because they can't. Comfort is for children. Hands tremble as you run them over Theta's curls. "Wake up," you tell him. "_Wake up._"

Disobedient little thing.

"Why couldn't I stop this?" You sob.

You turn your glittering face up to Amy and Rory, who have backed away. "They had to kill him so much faster than you two?" You say. "Why aren't you dead, and Theta -" you push back his curls again, looking away from them and back at his eyes.

They're still open.

You lurch to your feet. "Please, kill me too," you say, stumbling towards the Ponds.

Amy shrinks away, but Rory steps forward, and steadies you. "Doctor."

You shut your eyes, head flicking distractedly like there's something buzzing and you're trying to get it away.

"Doctor," Rory repeats, and puts his arms around you. A minute later, you feel Amy join, and they're crying with you. You stay, curled in, stiff.


	13. Chapter 13

o**O**o Doctor, o**O**o

* * *

It's a small planet, covered soft with heather, just the right place. No civilizations - uninhabited except for three people in black, who will leave soon.

Your jacket's stiff - new and starched through. You've pulled your bowtie off, so it hangs down, two dark, nonsensical shapes looped around your neck, and you didn't bother with a hat. For all the people that have died at your hands, you've been at precious few funerals, and don't know the protocol. But wearing a hat felt so wrong. You have to let the less-than-warm wind mess your hair, let it turn the hot tears to freezing fingers on your skin.

Amy and Rory hug each other, you kneel alone in front of the rectangular hole, staining the knees of your trousers. Arms wrapped around the grey bundle that you thought you lost so many times, trying to remember how to breathe. If you don't do it now, you never will, so you hold him in front of you and take the last look.

He's ice-white, little turned-up nose still perfect, hair still River-curly and Doctor-brown.

You move the cloth over his face - stop for a second, still staring at him - then let it go, let it cover him completely. Holding him in both hands, rest him in the shallow pit you dug (when you should have been building a crib).

It isn't till you stand up that you realize you'll have to cover him in earth.

"I can't bury him," you say, and your voice comes out as a whisper.

"You don't have to," Amy says, giving your shoulder a squeeze.

You turn around as Rory picks up the shovel.

o**O**o

You leave, wander back to the TARDIS, go down through her, opening and closing knick-knack drawers at random. Find one with a length of rope. Too short. Keep looking. Here's one long enough.

You only hope that Time hasn't filled your regenerations back up.

Ah, but who cares if it has? The Master didn't change bodies. You can refuse, too.

You're sitting on a box in an empty little room somewhere, lost in the middle of your TARDIS.

.

And Amy comes in.

.

"How did you find me?"

"The door's right off the console room," she says.

"Really?"

"Really."

The TARDIS gives a hum.

(She can change doors, change rooms, and change lives when she does. Can't she.)

Amy comes to sit beside you, looking at your face and not your hands. She doesn't know what you're about to do. She's just come to be with you.

"You look like you need a little help."

You shake your head.

"Are you okay?"

You stay still.

"Can you just answer me?"

"I'm always okay," you say.

"You're lying," she says, plain and simple.

You look at her, rubbing the rope in one hand.

"You think this is your fault," she says.

"Of course I do. It is."

"Why?" Pause. "Doctor, you _never open up._ Listen." She takes your shoulders. "Listen, right now, to what I'm saying."

You raise your eyes half-heartedly.

"This is not your fault," she says.

Stare, blank.

She sighs. "Doctor, at least be honest. Do you not trust me?"

"I -"

"Do you _not - trust me._"

"Of course I trust you."

"Then get over yourself and tell me what you're thinking."

"Get over -" You can't believe it. This cold, Pond? Maybe you will tell her the truth.

"I'm thinking that you can't understand how - you can't understand all the ways it is my fault."

"No?" She raises her eyebrows. "So tell me."

"My name -" you start.

"Yeah, the name," she says. "From what I understand, all you did is save Rory and me, and fix yourself up a bit. What's wrong with that?"

You look at her, mouth open. "I just used the most powerful force in the universe!"

"Yeah, for _good_."

Your mouth stays open.

"I shouldn't have taken Theta to Gallifrey," you say.

"Why not?" She says, hands on hips.

"I nearly caused -"

"But it didn't. So why are you still upset?"

"I wanted to hurt them," you say. "I wanted to hurt the Time Lords. How - how in - how could I want that?"

"But you didn't actually do it."

"That doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters."

That simple statement, as well as Amy's hand rubbing the back of your neck work together to loosen your shoulders. You give a trembling sigh.

"Theta's dead," you whisper.

"Yeah," she says sadly. "Theta's gone. But you tried as hard as a parent could. And that is nothing to be ashamed of."

"It was selfish of me to go to Gallifrey," you say. "Don't you get it? I could have caused the collapse of the universe."

"It wasn't _selfish!_ Doctor, why can't you _listen to me?_ You did a brave thing. You just need to stop blaming everything on yourself. You went to Gallifrey to save Theta, and doing something for someone else is not selfishness. Is - not - selfishness."

"But …" you trail off.

"But nothing," she says. "Theta didn't die because of you. And you saved us."

"You and Rory almost died," you say.

"We came with you because we wanted to," she says. "That doesn't matter." There's a long pause, then she speaks. "Come here."

She pulls you into a hug and whispers in your ear. "This isn't your fault."

But you can't accept that.

No matter how gloriously true (the closest you've felt to innocent for centuries) it seems.

"I killed the Time Lords," you say. "All of them. I felt it all. Not now, but I did it - I burnt them. At the end of the war."

"And that was the right thing to do," you say. "How many other people would they have hurt like they hurt you, if you had let them go on? Your problem is that you do the right thing, and that is not a problem."

She kisses your forehead and leaves you.

.

You sit there, feeling like life's being rubbed back into you. Open your clenched fist, let the rope fall.

Time to come out of the cold. Time to come out of the cold, Doctor.

-the end-

* * *

Thank you. So. Much. Everyone.


End file.
